PC  en 


John  Neal 


Baltimore,  1£18 


WITHOUT  NOTES; 


THE  MANIAC  HARPER. 

Eagles!   and  Stars!  and  Rainbows! 

BY  JEHU   O>  CATARACT, 

Author  of  Keep  Cool,  &c. 


BALTIMORE-. 
PUBLISHED    BY    N.    G.   MAXWELL* 


FROM   THE    PORTICO    PRESS. 

Geo.  W.  Grater,  printer. 
1818. 


V 


• 


DISTBICT   OP   MiHTlASn,  s< 

tf&sss^asfifsr^a'is,  °*  **«•  "•  *•  *«^w 


TO   THE  READER, 

This  was  written  when  I  was  a  prisoner;  when  I  felt  the  vic 
tories  of  my  countrymen.  I  have  attempted  to  do  justice  to 
to  American  scenery  and  American  character,  not  to  versify  the 
minutiae  of  battles — not  to  give  names,  titles,  or  geographical 
references  for  my  authority,  for  all  these  may  be  found  in 
the  newspapers  of  the  day. 

For  its  faults  and  I  feel  they  are  numerous,  I  have  no  other 
apology  than  this — I  am  weary  of  it.  At  this  moment  there  is 
scarcely  a  line  standing  as  it  was  originally  written:  I  have  al 
tered  and  added,  and  withdrawn  so  much,  and  so  frequently 
from  the  web,  that  I  have  learnt  to  distrust  my  own  opinion  of 
the  whole:  I  have  learnt  to  doubt  of  passages  on  which  1  should 
pronounce  confidently  and  firmly,  at  the  first  reading,  if  anoth 
er  had  written  them.  By  the  opinions  of  others  1  shall  not 
be  benefited  until  it  is  before  the  world — for  I  have  written  it 
in  secrecy,  and  it  shall  be  published  in  secrecy.  I  have  written 
it  on  my  own  responsibility  and  it  shall  go  before  my  country 
men  unaided  by  criticism  or  friendship.  If  it  has  merit  they 
will  acknowledge  it — if  not  at  this  time,  they  will  at  some  future 
hour  when  it  shall  have  become  the  fashion  for  Americans  to 
respect  themselves.  If  it  is  unworthy  of  remembrance — let  it 
perish! — and  perhaps  one  day  or  other  I  may  be  among  the 
first  to  acknowledge  the  justice  of  its  fate.  All  I  ask  is  this: 
read  it  in  charity  and  remember,  I  have  not  attempted  to  write 
a  history,  but  a  poem  THE  AUTHOR 


INTRODUCTION. 

'Twas  night  and  the  breath  of  the  tempest  was  near, 
And  her  plumes  were  unfolded  abroad  o'er  the  sky; 

The  lightnings  were  held  in  their  struggling  career, 
And  the  song  of  the  waters  went  patiently  by: 

A  heaviness  was  in  the  air, 
As  if  some  form  were  hovering  there, 
With  languid  wing  and  floating  hair: 
Some  cloudy  one,  whose  sluggish  flight 

Was  stooping  to  a  dreary  home: 
And  paused  to  intercept  the  light 
That,  bursting  from  the  vault  of  night 

Broke  o'er  clouds  in  showery  ioam; 
All  was  as  still  in  heaven  and  earth 
As  hours  that  watch  the  earthquake's  birth; 
When  lo!  a  sudden  trumpet's  blast 
Burst  loudly  on  the  ear! — and  past: 
Then  came  the  roll  of  drums!  and  high 
The  cannon's  voice  and  bugle  cry: 
And  then — amid  the  clouds  was  heard 

A  thrilling  echo  to  the  song: 
And  o'er  the  clouds  there  shrieked  some  bird 
That  went  on  viewless  wing  along! 

Then  a  minstrel  was  seen,  and  a  vision  came  forth 
Like  a  cold  troubled  light  o'er  the  clouds  or  the  north, 


VI.  INTRODUCTION. 

And  the  look  of  the  minstrel  was  lifted  and  high: 
And  the  lights  of  the  storm  and  the  lights  of  the  sky, 
While  his  robe  was  abroad  on  the  breeze  that  went  byy 
"Were  flashing  and  wild  in  the  dark  of  his  eye: 
A  harp  was  before  him — his  hand  in  the  air, 
Yet  it  paused  ere  it  fell  on  his  echoing  lyre, 
And  trembled  and  dwelt,  as  uplifted  in  prayer — 
Niagara  roll'd! — and  the  battle  was  there! 
The  pealing  of  thunder,  and  rushing  of  fire! 
And  all  that  the  bosom  of  song  can  inspire! 
The  future  in  pomp  was  assembled  before  him — 
He  felt  as  the  pinions  of  prophecy  bore  him; 

And  yet — for  the  dreams  of  his  morning  had  flown. 
His  heart  was  oppressed  with  a  terrour  unknown. 

The  chill  of  the  night  on  his  spirit  was  shed, 
Like  the  damps  that  abide  on  the  brow  of  the  dead: 
But  more  than   the  murmurs   of  night   were  around, 
When  he  stooped  o'er  his  harp  and  awakened  a  sound; 

For  voices  were  heard  in  the  air! 
Like  the  stirring  that  comes  from  the  tenanted  ground, 

When  revelry  wanders  there! 

Yet  thrice  he  smote  the  palsied  strings, 
And  thrice  he  heard  the  rush  of  wings, 

And  feeble  murmurings  rose! 
As  if  some  startled  spirit  fled — 
Some  soldier's  guard! — where  he  had  bled— 
Disturbed  in  her  repose: 


INTRODUCTION. 


VII. 


As  if  some  warriour  raised  his  head, 
Arid  listened  from  his  bloody  bed. 
To  requiems  o'er  his  foes! 

The  minstrel  left  the  field  of  blood 

And  stood  above  the  mighty  flood; 

And  listened  to  its  stormy  voice; 

And  heard  it  on  the  winds  rejoice; 

And  there — he  would  have  sung — but  there 

The  awe  he  felt  was  in  the  air. 

Then  he  stood  on  a  cliff  when  the  morning  unrolled 
Her  banners  of  crimson,  and  purple,  and  gold, 
Her  plumage,  and  robe  with  its  changeable  fold, 

And  felt  as  he  saw  all  these  splendours  outspread, 
As  if  he  had  gone  where  some  mighty-one  slumbers 
With  the  ruins  of  song,  and  the  relics  of  numbers; 

Who  woke  as  he  heard  the  unhallowed  tread! 

Yet — yet  'twas  an  impulse  may  never  be  quenched: 
The  fountains  that  burst  where  the  light  hath  its 

source — 
Or  cherubim  wings,  may  be  stayed  in  their  course, 

When  they  lighten  along  where  the  storm  is  entrenched; 

Her  spear  from  the  Angel  of  night  may  be  wrenched; 

Or  the  plumage  of  Peace  in  the  battle  be  drenched,—- 
When  it  bends  o'er  the  strife,  like  the  bow  of  the  sky, 
Or  the  light  that  is  seen  in  a  martyr'd-one's  eye; — 


VHl.  INTRODUCTION..    ' 

Before  you  may  still  the  tumultuous  voice 
Of  a  heart  that  is  heaving  with  song; 

Before  ye  may  silence  the  lyres  that  rejoice, 
Where  the  wind  from  the  water  comes  sweeping  along; 
And  the  chorus  of  mountain  and  cavern  is  strong. 

The  minstrel  smote  his  harp  once  more; 

And  loudly  then,  there  went  this  strain 
Unsteadily,  from  shore  to  shore, 

And  died  along  the  distant  main. 

My  country!  my  home!  sunny  land  of  my  fathers! 

Where  empires  unknown  in  bright  solitudes  lie; 
Where  Nature,  august  in  serenity,  gathers 

The  wonders  of  mountain,  and  ocean,  and  sky: 
Where  the  blue  dome  of  heaven  scarce  bounds  her 
dominion; 

Where  Man  is  as  free  as  the  creatures  of  air; 
As  thine  Eagle — of  fleet,  uncontroulable  pinion; 

The  gallant  gray  Bird  of  the  Winds!  that  is  there. 

That  Eagle,  whose  charter,  each  morning  renews, 
As  her  god  thro'  unquenchable  light  she  pursues, 

And  tosses  her  plumes  to  the  trumpet  acclaim:— 
To  the  rushing  of  wings,  and  the  screaming  of  praise, 
That  her  starry-eyed  nurslings  in  extacy  raise, 
As  they  mount  with  their  bosoms  all  bare  in  the  blaze 

Of  their  idol,  whose  temple  is  contained  with  flame! 

My  country!  my  home!  in  whose  hallowed  retreats, 
An  horizon  of  blue  with  a  blue  water  meets, 
Till  the  whole  like  one  ocean  appears! 


INTRODUCTION-  . 

Till  the  eye  that  dwells  long  on  the  faint,  distant  verge, 
Bewildered  to  see  the  fresh  islets  emerge, 
Like  evergreen  grottoes  redeemed  from  the  surge, 
Overflows — in  the  worship  of  tears: 

Where  the  sun  travels  low  in  his  chariot  of  light; 
And  the  stars  and  the  hills  are  together  at  night: 

Where  the  lustre  that  Day  at  his  parting  hath  shed, 
In  one  blush  o'er  the  land  and  the  water  is  spread; 
And  swims  like  a  wreath  on  each  mountain's  proud  beadf 
And  dwells  on  the  eight 
Of  each  cliflT's  stormy  height — 
Whose  foliage  hangs  loosely  and  wildly  in  air, 
Like  a  meteor-diadem  dropped  in  the  flight 
Of  those  who  are  forth  in  the  storm  and  the  fight, 
O'er  the  plumage  of  ravens  that  warriour-helms  wear. 

There  the  Thunderers  stand!  in  their  fortress  of  shade 
Like  a  guard  that  some  god  in  his  might  hath  arrayed: 

Where  the  foarn-mantled  tides,  as  they  rush  from  each 
pole, 

Whose  warrings  have  shaken  the  thrones  of  the  deep, 
Embrace  in  one  lasting  and  measureless  roll, 

And  sink,  with  the  lulling  of  tempests  to  sleep: 
"Where  Dominion  is  stayed  by  a  cliff-guarded  shore; 

Where  Empire  looks  out  from  her  heights  o'er  the  sea: 
Where  Peace  is  at  home — and  the  thunders  that  roar, 
Are  not  the  dread  voices  that  nations  deplore, 

But  the  bounding  of  water  that's  free! 
2 


INTRODUCTION. 


But  the  cataract-hymn  of  an  unfettered  tide, 
Where  the  battle  hath  pealed;  but  no  Despots  abide; 
Where  all  that  moves  in  storm  along: 
The  earthquake's  voice:  the  torrent's  song: 
The  uproar  of  the  skies,  when  Night 
Leads  forth  her  champions  to  the  fight: 
The  elemental  chant;  and  roll 
Of  thunders  crowding  to  the  pole: 

Or,  when  the  heaven  is  cloudless,  bright; 
And  hearts  are  swelling  with  delight; 

And  eyes  are  lifted  cheerfully — 
They  o'er  that  blue  and  boundless  sky, 
Like  some  archangel's  trump  on  high, 

Break  suddenly  and  fearfully! 
The  Ocean  when  it  rolls  aloud: 
The  Tempest  bursting  from  her  cloud 

In  one  uninterrupted  peal, 
When  Darkness  sits  amid  the  sky; 
And  shadowy  forms  go  trooping  by; 
And  everlasting  mountains  reel: 
All — all  of  this  is  Freedom's  song, 
And  all  that  winds  and  waves  prolong, 

Are  anthems  rolled  to  Liberty! 
Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  wood; 

The  wonders  of  their  giant  race; 
Creation's  barrier!     Thou  hast  stood 

Upon  thy  lofty  dwelling  place, 
Unshaken  by  contending  mains 
That^thundered  in  their  rocky  chains: 


INTRODUCTION'. 


XI. 


Unyielding  to  the  wars  that  Tempests  wage, 
When  all  the  elements  in  wrath  engage: 
And  earthquakes— oceans— in  their  rage 

Have  toiled  at  thine  eternal  base. 
Home  of  the  waters!  where  their  strength 
Rolls  in  immeasureable  length: 

Or  tumbling  from  their  cloudy  thrones 

As  thundering  from  a  battlement, 
With  martial  hymning,  like  the  tones 

Of  battle-shout,  by  warriours  sent — 
Go  rioting  in  foam  and  spray, 
With  rainbow-streamers  o'er  their  way, 

Beneath  the  precipice  they've  rent; 
Exulting — as  they  burst  their  cloud — 
As  high — as  dazzling — and  as  loud — 
As  sheets  of  light,  in  their  descent 
Thro'  midnight's  parting  firmament! 

Where  such  the  measure  of  the  sky, 
That  storms  may  pass  unheeded  by; 
And  such  the  pillar'd  strength  of  earth, 

So  strong  its  everlasting  chain, 
That  when  convulsion  finds  a  birth, 

That  birth  is  ever  found  in  vain: 

The  tumult  in  its  weakness  dies, 

Unheeded  by  the  earth  or  skies. 

Land  of  the  hero,  the  patriot,  and  sage! 

Of  warriours,  whose  deeds  have  unfettered  the  wave! 
Whose  standard  looks  forth  where  the  whirlwinds 
engage, 

And  battles  aloft— in  the  realms  of  the  brave! 


X'H.  INTRODUCTION. 

Whose  genius  came  forth  from  the  home  of  the  flood, 

And  strove  with  the  pirate's  red  banner  on  high, 
Till  the  foam  of  the  ocean  was  tinged  with  his  blood, 
Filled  the  air  with  her  rainbows!— and  fearlessly  stood, 
And  loosened  her  eaglets  abroad  o'er  the  sky! 

Of  men,  who  have  fought  with  the  high  Briton  too, 
As  he  sat  on  his  throne  in  his  empire  of  blue, 
Till  the  scarlet-crossed  banner  that  majesty  bent 

Had  faded  and  fled  from  its  home  in  the  sky; 
Till  its  terrours  went  off,  as  its  splendours  were  rent, 

Like  meteors  that  over  the  firmament  fly, 
And  threw,  as  they  passed  o'er  the  free-rolling  tide, 
A  deep  ruddy  tint — 'twas  the  last  blush  of  pride. 

Land  of  white  bosoms,  and  blue  laughing  eyes! 
Like  miniature  pictures  of  transparent  skies, 

Where  young  thoughts  like  the  blessed  are  seen; 
May  those  eyes  brighten  quick  at  the  tale  that  I  tell! 
And  O,  if  it  wake  but  one  white  bosom's  swell; 

One  heart  where  dear  Feeling  hath  been: 
One  pulse  that  has  throbbed  in  the  still  of  the  night, 
In  the  dream  of  its  soldier  afar  in  the  fight, 

I'm  repaid  for  it  over  and  over: 

And  Columbia  may  wake  when  she  hears  the  loud  strain, 
And  stoop  o'er  the  graves  of  her  children  again, 

And  weep  o'er  the  garlands  they  wove  her: 


INTRODUCTION.  Xlll. 

And  many  a  bard  of  my  country  who  slumbers, 
Neglected — forgotten — oppressed — or  unknown — 
May  arise  in  his  strength,  in  the  grandeur  of  numbers, 
Sublime  on  the  height  of  a  star-lighted  throne — 
A'id  chant  to  the  skies!  and  assert  his  high  claim 
With  those  who  are  forth  for  the  chapiet  of  Fame. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 


CANTO  I. 

JL  HERE'S  a  fierce  gray  Bird,  with  a  bending  beak, 
With  a  glittering  eye  and  a  piercing  shriek, 
That  nurses  her  brood  where  the  cliff-flowers  blow 
On  the  precipice  top — in  perpetual  snow — 
Where  the  fountains  are  mute  or  in  secrecy  flow: 
A  BIRD  that  is  first  to  worship  the  sun, 
When  he  gallops  in  light — till  the  cloud-tides  run 
In  billows  of  fire  as  his  course  is  done: 
Above  where  the  torrent  is  forth  in  its  might- 
Above  where  the  fountain  is  gushing  in  light — 
Above   where  the  silvery  flashing  is  seen 
Of  streamlets  that  bend  o'er  the  rich  mossy  green, 
Emblazed  with  the  tintof  the  young  morning's  eye- 
Like  ribbons  of  flame — or  the  bow  of  the  sky: 
Above  that  dark  torrent — above  that  bright  stream, 
Her  voice  may  be  heard  with  its  clear  wild  scream, 
As  she  chants  to  her  God  and  unfolds  in  his  beam; 
Wrhile  her  young  are  all  laid  in  his  rich  red  blaze, 
And  their  winglets  are  fledged  in  his  hottest  rays: 


*6  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Proud  Bird  of  the  Cliff!   where  the  barren  yew  springs: 
Where  the  sunshine  stays,  and  the  wind-harp  sings; 
And  the  heralds  of  battle  are  pluming  their  wings: 
That  BIRD  is  abroad  over  hill-top  and  flood — 
Over  valley  and  rock,  over  mountain  and  wood — 
Sublimely  she  sails  with  her  storm-cleaving  brood! 

In  perilous  haste,  o'er  a  steep  mountain's  side, 
A  troop  of  tall  horsemen  are  seen  to  ride: 
Careering  they  come  like  a  band  of  young  knights 
That  the  trumpet  of  morn  to  the  tilting  invites; 
With  high  nodding  plumes,  and  with  sun-shiny  vests: 
With  wide  tossing  manes  and  with  mail -covered  breasts* 
With  arching  of  necks,  and  the  plunge  and  the  pride 
Of  their  high  mettled  steeds,  as  they  galloping  ride 
In  glitter  and  pomp: — with  their  housings  of  gold — 
With  their  scarlet  and  blue,  as  their  squadrons  unfold, 
Flashing  changeable  light,  like  a  banner  unrolled. 
Now  they  burst  on  the  eye  in  their  martial  array! 
And  now  they  have  gone!— like  a  vision  of  day: 
In  a  streaming  of  splendor  they  came-but  they  wheeled; 
And  instantly  all  the  bright  show  was  concealed! 
As  if  'twere  a  tournament  held  in  the  sky 
Betrayed  by  some  light  passing  suddenly  by: 
Some  band  by  the  flashing  of  torches  revealed, 
As  it  fell   o'er  the  boss  of  an  uplifted  shield, 
Or  plumage  and  blades  in  the  darkness  concealed. 
They  came  like  a  cloud  that  is  passing  the  light, 
That  brightens  and  blazes — and  fades  from  the  sight: 
They  came  like  a  dream — and  as  swiftly  they  fled 
As  the  shadows  that  pass  o'er  the  sun's  dying  red— 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  17 

And  one  has  returned!  'twas  the  first  of  the  band; 

On  tlie  top  of  the  cliff  he  has  taken  his  stand, 
And  the  tread  of  his  barb  as  he  leans  in  his  strength, 
And  loosens  his  mane  in  the  flow  of*  its  length, 

Declares  he  is  reined  by  a  masterly  hand! 
While  he  rears  o'er  the  rich-rolling  clouds  of  that  height, 
Like  a  pageant  upraised  by  the  wonders  of  light: 
A  warriour  of  flame! — on  a  courser  of  night! 
See,  his  helm  feathers  glance  in  the  clear  setting  sun, 
While  his  sabre  is  forth,  o'er  the  cliff  he  has  won, 

W^ith  a  waving  of  strength  and  an  air  of  command! 

He  is  gone — and  the  brown,  where  the  sunset  reposes 
Grows  warm  as  the  bloom  on  the  bosom  of  roses; 
The  herbage  is  crimson'd  and  sprinkled  with  light, 
And  purple  and  yellow  are  busy  and  bright. 
On  the  precipice-crown,  and  the  sceptre  of  green 
That  the  forest-tree  heaves,  a  red  lustre  is  seen, 
In  a  wreathing  of  light:  'tis  a  garland  that  they, 
Whose  blossoms  are  plucked  at  the  closing  of  day, 
Have  dropp'd  from  their  laps  in  their  rioting  play: 
The  summer  leaf  reddens  and  deepens  its  dies; 
Its  scarlet  and  green  all  unite,  as  it  lies, 
In  the  breath  of  the  vapour,  and  hue  of  the  skies. 
The  young  gushing  fount  ripples  tenderly  red; 
And  a  blush  like  the  sighing  of  blossoms  is  shed 
O'er  the  green  shiny  moss  that  around  it  is  spread. 
A  glow  like  enchantment  is  seen  o'er  the  lake, 
Like  the  flush  of  the  sky,  when  the  day  heralds  wake, 
And  o'er  its  deep  blue  all  their  soft  plumage  shake: 
3 


18  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Now  the  warmth  of  the  heaven  is  fading  away; 
Young  Evening  comes  up  in  pursuit  of  the  Day: 
The  richness  and  mist  of  the  tints  that  were  there 
Are  melting  away  like  the  bow  of  the  air: 
The  blue  bosom'd  water  heaves  darker  and  bluer: 
The  cliffs  and  the  trees  are  seen  bolder  and  truer: 
The  landscape  has  less  of  enchantment  and  light; 
But  it  lies  the  more  steady  and  firm  in  the  sight: 
The  lustre  crown'd  peaks,  while  they  dazzled  the  eye 
Seemed  loosen'd  and  passing  away  in  the  sky: 
And  the  far  distant  hills  in  their  tremulous  blue, 
Like  the  violet  that's  melting  away  in  its  dew, 
But  baffled  the  eye,  as  it  dwelt  on  their  hue. 
The  light  of  the  hill,  and  the  wave,  and  the  sky 
Grow  fainter,  and  fainter: — the  wonders  all  die. 

The  visions  have  gone!  they  have  vanished  away, 
Unobserved  in  their  change,  like  the  bliss  of  a  day* 
The  rainbows  of  heaven  were  bent  in  our  sight: 
And  fountains  were  gushing  like  wine  in  its  light: 
And  seraphs  were  wheeling  around  in  their  flight — 
A  moment — and  all  was  enveloped  in  night! 
sTis  thus  with  the  dreams  of  the  high-heaving  heart, 
They  come  but  to  blaze — and  they  blaze  to  depart: 
Their  gossamer  wings  are  to  thin  to  abide 
The  chilling  of  sorrow,  or  burning  of  pride. 
They  come  but  to  brush  o'er  its  young  gallant  swell, 
Like  bright  birds  over  ocean; — but  never  to  dwell. 

Observed  ye  the  cloud  on  that  mountain's  dim  green? 
So  heavily  hanging?  as  if  it  had  been 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  19 

The  tent  of  the  Thunderer — the  chariot  of  one 

Who  dare  not  appear  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun? 

5Tis  descending  to  earth!  and  some  horsemen  are  now, 

In  a  line  of  dark  mist,  coming  down  from  its  brow. 

'Tis  a  helmeted  band!  from  the  hills  they  descend 

Like  the  monarchs  of  storm,  when  the  forest  trees  bend. 

No  scimitars  swing  as  they  gallop  along: 

No  clattering  roof  falls  sudden  and  strong: 

No  trumpet  is  filled,  and  no  bugle  is  blown: 

No  banners  abroad  on  the  wind  are  thrown: 

No  shoutings  are  heard— and  no  cheerings  are  given: 

No  wavings  of  red  flowing  plumage  to  heaven: 

No  flashing  of  blades,  and  no  loosening  of  reins: 

No  neighing  of  steeds,  and  no  tossing  of  manes: 

No  furniture  trailing,  or  warriour  helms  bowing — 

Or  crimson  and  gold-spotted  drapery  flowing. 

But  they  speed  like  coursers  whose  hoofs  are  shod, 

With  a  silent  shoe  from  the  loosen'd  sod: 

Like  tbe  steeds  that  career,  o'er  the  billowy  surf, 

Or  stretch  like  the  winds  o'er  the  untrodden  turf, 

Where  the  willow  and  yew   in   their  darkness  are 

weeping, 

And  young,  gallant  hearts  in  their  sepulchres  sleeping: 
Like  the  squadrons  that  on  the  pale  light  of  the  moon, — 
While  the  Nights  muffled  horn  plays  a  low  windy  tune, 
Are  seen  to  come  down  from  the  height  of  the  skies, 
By  the  warriour,  that  on  the  red  battle-field  lies, 
And  wave  their  cloud  helmets  and  charge  o'er  the  field, 
And  career  o'er  the  tracks  where  the  living  had  wheel'd; 


20  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

When  the  dying  half  raise  themselves  up  in  a  trance, 
And  gaze  on  the  show  as  their  thin  banners  glance, 
And  wonder  to  see  the  dread  battle  renewed, 
On  the  turf  where  themselves  and  their  comrades  had 

stood. 

Like  these  shadows,  in  swiftness  and  darkness  they  ride 
O'er  the  thunder-reft  mount — on  its  ruggedest  side: 
From  the  precipice  top  they  circle  and  leap, 
Like  the  warriours  of  air,  that  are  seen  in  our  sleep: 
Like  the  foemen  that  pass  by  the  bleeding  one's  eyes, 
With  gestures  more  wild  and  more  fierce  till  he  dies: 
And  away  they  have  gone  with  a  motionless  speed, 
Like  Demons  abroad  on  some  dreadful  deed. 
The  last  one  hath  gone:  they  have  all  disappear'd; 
Their  dull-echoed  trampings  no  longer  are  heard: 
For  still,  tho'  they  passed  like  no  steeds  of  the  earth, 
The  fall  of  their  tread  gave  some  hollow-sounds  birth; 
Your  heart  would  lie  still  till  it  numbered  the  last; 
And  your  breath  would  be  held  till  the  rear  horseman 

past: 

So  swiftly — so  mutely — so  darkly  they  went, 
Like  the  spectres  of  air  to  the  sorcerer  sent, 
That  ye/eft  their  approach,  and  might  guess  their  intent. 
Your  hero's  stern-bosom  will  oftentimes  quake, 
Your  gallant  young  warriour-plume  oftentimes  shake 
Before  the  cool  marching  that  comes  in  the  night — 
Passing  by  like  a  cloud  in  the  dim  troubled  light — 
Appalling  the  heart  with  a  nameless  affright. — 
When  that  would  swell  strongly,  and  this  would  appear, 
If  the  sound  of  one  trumpet  saluted  the  ear; 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGAKA.  21 

Like  some  scarlet-wing'd  bird,  that  is  nurs'd  in  the  day, 
When  she  shakes  her  red  plumage  ia  wrath  o'er  her 
prey. 

For  be  they  the  horsemen  of  earth  or  of  heaven: 
No  blast  that  the  trumpet  of  Slaughter  hath  given; 
No  roll  of  the  drum — and  no  cry  of  the  fife; 
No  neighing  of  steeds  in  the  bloodiest  strife — 
Is  half  so  appalling  to  full  swelling  hearts, 
As  the  still,  pulseless-tramp  of  a  band  that  departs, 
With  echoeless  armour — with  motionless  plume: 
With  ensigns  all  furled — in  the  trappings  of  gloom- 
Parading  like  those  who  came  up  from  the  tomb, 
In  silence  and  darkness — determined  and  slow, 
And  dreadfully  calm — as  the  murderers  brow, 
When  his  dagger  is  forth! — and  ye  see  not  the  blow, 
Till  the  gleam  of  the  blade  shows  your  heart  in  its  flow. 

O,  say  what  ye  will! — the  dull  sound  that  awakes, 
When  the  night  breeze  is  down,  and  the   chill  spirit 

aches 

With  its  measureless  thought,  is  more  dreadful  by  far 
Than  the  burst  of  the  trump  as  it  peals  for  the  war. 
It  is  the  cold  summons  that  comes  from  the  ground, 
When  a  sepulchre  answers  your  light  youthful  bound, 
And  loud  joyous  laugh,  with  its  chill  fearful  sound, 
Compar'd  to  the  challenge  that  leaps  on  the  ear, 
When  the  banners  of  death  in  their  splendours  appear, 
And  the  free  golden  bugle  sings  freshly  and  clear! 
The  low,  sullen  moans  that  so  feebly  awake, 


22  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

At  midnight — when  one  is  alone — on  some  lake, 

o 

ComparM  to  the  Thunderer's  voice,  when  it  rolls 

From  the  bosom  of  space,  to  the  uttermost  poles! 

Like  something  that  stirs  in  the  weight  of  a  shroud; 

The  talking  of  those  who  go  by  in  a  cloud; 

To  the  cannon's  full  voice  when  it  wanders  aloud! 

'Tis  the  light  that  is  seen  to  burst  under  the  wave— 

The  pale,  fitful  omen,  that  plays  o'er  a  grave, 

To  the  rushing  of  fire  where  the  turf  is  all  red, 

And  farewells  are  discharged  o'er  a  young  soldier's  bed) 

To  the  lightnings  that  blaze  o'er  the  mariner's  way, 

When  the  storm  is  in  pomp,  and  the  ocean  in  spray! 

Dark  and  chill  is  the  sky;  and  the  clouds  gather  round; 
There's  nought  to  be  seen,  yet  there  comes  a  low  sound; 
As  if  something  were  near,  that  would  pass  unobserved, 
O,if  'tis  that  band,  may  their  right-arms  be  nerved! 
Hark! — a  challenge  is  given! — a  rash  charger  neighs! 
And  a  trumpet  is  blown!  and  lo,  there's  a  blaze! 
And  a  clashing  of  sabres  is  heard — and  a  shout, 
Like  a  hurrying  order,  goes  passing  about! 
And  unfurling  banners  are  toss'd  to  the  sky, 
As  struggling  to  float  on  the  wind  passing  by — 
And  unharness'd  war-steeds  are  crowding  together; 
The  horseman's  thick  plume-»-and  the  foot  soldier's 

feather — 

The  battle  is  up  and  the  thunder  is  pealing: 
And  squadrons  of  horsemen  are  coursing  and  wheeling; 
And  line  after  line  in  their  light  are  revealing! 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

One  troop  of  high  helms  thro'  the  midst  urge  their  way, 
Unbroken  and  stern,  like  a  ship  thro'  the  spray: 
Their  pistols  speak  quick— and  their  blades  are  all  bare, 
And  the  sparkles  of  steely  encounter  are  there. 

Away  they  still  speed!— with  one  impulse  they  bound; 
With  one  impulse  alike,  as  their  foes  gather  round. 
Undismayed — undisturbed— and  above  all  the  rest, 
One  rides  o'er  the  strife,  like  a  plume  o'er  its  crest; 
And  holds  on  his  way  thro*  the  scimetars  there, 
All  plunging  in  light! — while  the  slumbering  air 
Shakes  wide  with  the  rolling  artillery-peal: 
That  tall  plume  is  first,  and  its  followers  deal 
Around,  and  around  their  desperate  blows, 
Like  the  army  of  shadows  above,  when  it  goes 
With  the  smiting  of  shields  and  the  clapping  of  wings; 
When  the  red-crests  shake — and  the  storm-pipe  sings: 
When   the  cloud-flag  unfurls— and  the  death-bugles 

sound — 
When  the  monarchs  of  space  on  their  dark  chargers 

bound — 

And  the  shock  of  their  cavalry  comes  in  the  night, 
With  furniture  flashing!  and  weapons  of  light! 
So  travelled  this  band  in  its  pomp  and  its  might. 

Away  they  have  gone! — and  their  path  is  all  red, 
Hedged  in  by  two  lines  of  the  dying  and  dead; 
By  bosoms  that  burst  unrevenged  in  the  strife — 
By  swords  that  yet  shake  in  the  passing  of  life— 
For  so  swift  had  that  pageant  of  darkness  sped— 
So  like  a  trooping  of  cloud  mounted  dead — 


24  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

That  the  flashing  reply,  of  the  foe  that  was  cleft, 
But  fell  on  the  shadows  those  troopers  had  left. 

And  would  ye  know  why  woke  that  desperate  fray? 
Why  battle  moved  in  night  and  shunned  the  day? 
And  who  the  leader  of  that  sullen  band, 
Whose  march  seemed  destiny?— whose  stern  command 
Went  thrilling  to  the  heart, — while  not  a  word 
He  uttered  in  his  march — and  nought  was  heard, 
But  the  deep,  dreadful  sound,  of  hearts  that  burst, 
Of  arms  that  smote  in  death,  and  lips  that  curs'd? 
Who  gave  no  cheering  to  his  troops! — as  they 
Wheeled— charged—and  smote — and  gallopp'd  in  array! 
But  shook  his  naked  falchion  in  his  might, 
And  scattered  o'er  the  path  its  meteor  light? 
The  only  guide  they  wished  for  in  the  fight! 
Then,  like  the  bolt  of  heaven,  it  fiash'd  and  fell! 
On  blades  and  helms,  that  shatter'd  in  their  knell. 
How  firm  and  high  he  sat! — all  bone — all  strength — 
His  charger  stretching  at  his  utmost  length! 

'Tis  lighter  now:  that  band  is  seen  again, 
Passing  at  length  before  a  tented  plain: 
The  moon  is  up,  and  brightening  o'e«*  their  road; 
Their  steeds  come  bravely  round  beneath  their  load, 
And  slacken  to  a  trot — and  snorting  loudly, 
Strain  their  dark  necks,  with  far  manes  floating  proudly: 
Thickening  their  tramps  approach — they  near  the  blaze 
Of  Freedom's  camp,  where  many  a  votary  prays. 
The  leader  halts — the  steady  lights  show  well 
His  stately -outline  and  his  charger's  swell. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA  2£ 

How  like  a  shade  the  horse  and  rider  seem! 

Like  the  dark  trooper  of  a  troubled  dream. 

His  sabre  is  abroad — they  gather  round — 

Back! — back, — it  waves!— and  hark!  the  bugles  sound: 

Swiftly  he  wheels! — his  arm  is  stretched  again — 

Some  gather  round,  and  some  behind  remain. 

Forth,  and  all  free!  a  chosen  escort  spring; 

Unsheath  their  hangers,  while  their  scabbards  ring: 

Leap  to  their  places, and  at  speed  depart, 

While  the  rough  trumpets  on  the  night-winds  start: 

Away  they  stretch  at  length!  as  when  they've  met 

In  chase  upon  the  mountain-tops,  while  yet 

The  morning  gems  are  thick,  and  all  the  turf  is  wet 

That  troop  have  staid  their  march — and  one's  ahead; 
His  fire-eyed  charger  halts  with  angry  tread; 
His  black  limbs  bathed  in  foam — his  reaching  mane, 
Rising  and  sinking,  as  he  feels  the  reign: 
Now  rings  the  harness! — from  the  saddle  bounds 
The  red-plumed  chief— erect,  and  lightly  sounds 
A  free-tuned  bugle  to  the  distant  hills; 
Singing  and  pealing  clear,  like  horn  that  Echo  fills: 
And  lo  I  an  answer  comes— that  faintly  dies 
In  such  calm  melody  along  the  skies, 
As  if  it  were  a  challenge  lightly  given, 
From  golden  trumpets  on  a  summer  even! 
Now  springing  merrily  upon  the  ear, 
As  if  that  angel  trumpeter  were  near: 
4 


26  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Like  songs  ye  hear  at  evening  o'er  the  main — 
Like  bells  upon  the  wind — that  come  and  go  again. 

«Halt  here!'  the  chieftain  said— 'halt  here  awhile:* 
His  cheek  burned  deeper — and  a  soldier  smile 
Played  sternly  o'er  his  features,  as  he  laid 
His  martial  hand  upon  his  rattling  blade, 
And  gathered  up  his  cloak,  and  strode  amid  the  shade. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 


CANTO  II. 

H.ERE  sleeps  ONTARIO.    Dark  blue  water  hail ! 

Unawed  by  couquering  prow,  or  pirate  sail, 

Still  heaving  in  thy  freedom — still  unchained! 

Still  swelling  to  the  skies  -still  unprofaned! 

The  heaven's  blue  counterpart:   the  murmuring  home, 

Of  spirits  shipwrecked  on  the  ocean's  foam: 

Reflector  of  the  arch  that's  o'er  thee  bent: 

Thou  watery  sky!  thou  liquid  firmament! 

Mirror  of  garland- weaving  Solitude — 

The  wild  festoon — the  clift'— and  hanging  wood — 

The  soaring  eagle,  and  the  wing  of  light — 

The  sunny  plumage — and  the  starry  flight 

Of  dazzling  myriads,  in  a  cloudless  night. 

Peace  to  thy  bosom,  dark  Ontario! 
Forever  thus,  may  thy  free  waters  flow, 
In  their  rude  loveliness!  Thy  lonely  shore 
Forever  echo  to  the  sullen  roar 


38  BATTLE  OF  NIAGAUA. 

Of  thine  own  deep!  Thy  cliffs  forever  ring 
With  calling  wild  men,  in  their  journeying — 
The  savage  chant — the  panther's  smothered  cry — 
That  from  her  airy  height,  goes  thrilling  by! 
Be  ever  thus — as  now — magnificent — 
In  savage  nature's  pomp — unbowed — unbent; 
And  thou  wilt  ever  be  omnipotent! 

Be  ever  thus  Ontario! — and  be  free: 
The  home  of  wild  men,  and  of  Liberty. — 
But  let  thy  woods  be  bowed — their  sceptres  shorn': 
Thy  blooming  streamers  from  thy  ramparts  torn; 
Thy  fountains  hushed — and  their  luxuriant  green 
Of  oozy  moss,  that  o'er  thy  haunts  are  seen, 
Be  trampled  on  and  opened  to  the  sun — 
And  all  their  rich  exuberance  is  done: 
Let  but  the  white  man's  summons  once  be  heard.- 
And  gone,  forever,  is  thy  guardian  Bird: 
Be  once  thy  torrents  stilled— the  shiny  moss, 
Thy  grotto-hangings,  that  the  dews  emboss; 
Thy  glittering  halls  laid  open  to  the  light — 
Thy  mysteries  revealed  to  the  unholy  sight: 
Thy  secret  places  to  the  sun  betrayed; 
And,  in  thy  temples,  men  of  blood  arrayed; 
The  curtain  of  thy  sanctuary  rent — 
Thy  dwellings  opened  to  the  firmament: 
Thy  solitude  disturbed — thine  altars  stained: 
Thy  heights  polluted,  and  thy  depths  profaned 
With  Indian  blood,  and  thy  dark  offspring  chained: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  29 

Thy  battlements  of  rocks,  and  cliffs,  and  clouds — 

Stripped  of  their  garland  flags,  And  hung  with  shrouds, 

And  bright  with  glittering  spires:  thine  altars  down — 

Then-whatartthou?  and  where  thy  thrones?  and  crowa? 

Thy  sceptres?  and  thy  hosts?— forever  gone! 

And  thou — a  savage  in  the  world!— alone: 

A  naked  monarch — sullen  stern,  and  rude, 

Amid  a  robed  and  plumed  multitude: 

Sublime  and  motionless—but  impotent — 

Stripped  of  his  arrows,  and  with  bow  unbent, 

Who  feels  that  terrour  of  the  Indian  then, 

Such  as  he  felt  in  night  and  darkness,  when 

That  Indian  walked  alone,  the  conquerer  of  men? 

True,  he  may  walk  with  his  own  fearless  tread; 
With  out-stretched  arm,  and  high  uplifted  head, 
Of  one  familiar  with  the  pathless  wood, 
The  caverned  chace,  the  haunts  of  solitude—* 
The  midnight  storm — the  thunder-clap — and  sleep 
On  jutting  cliff — above  a  tumbling  deep: 
But  where  will  be  that  reverential  dread, 
That  hung  upon  the  wild  man,  in  his  tread 
Within  his  own  dominions? — it  is  gone! — 
And  he  stands  there — undreaded  and  alone. 

Such  are  thy  wild  men,  dark  Ontario! 
Each  is  a  monarch  where  thy  waters  flow: 
But  rend  him  from  his  home  and  place  him  where 
The  heaven's  bright  blue  is  hidden— and  the  air 


30  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Breathes  thick  with  pestilence — and  there  he  dies, 
With  few  to  fear  and  none  to  sympathise; 

O  save  thy  children  blue  Ontario!— 
Who,  in  the  wilderness,  can  calmly  go 
To  do  their  worship  in  a  lonely  place, 
By  altars  reeking  with  the  she-wolf's  trace: 
And  gaze  intrepidly  upon  the  skies, 
While  the  red  lightning  in  its  anger  flies — 
When  white  men,  in  their  terrour,  close  their  eyes: 
For  man  is  there  sublime — he  is  a  god! 
Great  Nature's  master-piece!  like  him  who  trod 
The  banks  of  paradise,  and  stood  alone, 
The  wonder  of  the  skies — erect  upon  his  throne. 

Not  like  the  airy  god  of  moulded  light, 
Just  stepping  from  his  chariot  on  the  sight; 
Poising  his  beauties  on  a  rolling  cloud, 
With  arm  unstretched  and  bow-string  twanging  loudr 
And  arrows  singing  as  they  pierce  the  air, 
With  tinkling  sandals  and  with  golden  hair; 
As  if  he  paused  upon  his  bounding  way, 
And  loosened  his  fierce  arrows — but  in  play: 
But  like  that  angry  god,  in  blazing  light 
Bursting  from  space!  and  standing  in  his  might: 
Revealed  in  his  omnipotent  array 
Apollo  of  the  skies!  and  Deity  of  Day! 
In  godlike  wrath!  piercing  his  myriad-foe 
With  quenchless  shafts,  that  lighten  as  they  go: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  3* 

Not  like  that  god,  when  up  in  air  he  springs, 
With  brightening  mantle,  and  with  sunny  wings, 
When  heavenly  musick  murmurs  from  his  strings— 
A  buoyant  vision — an  embodied  dream 
Of  dainty  Poesy — and  boyishly  supreme. 

Not  the  thin  spirit  waked  by  young  Desire, 
Gazing  o'er  heaven,  till  her  thoughts  take  fire: 
Panting  and  breathless  in  her  heart's  wild  trance-  — 
Bright,  shapeless  forms — the  godlings  of  Romance. 
Not  that  Apollo — not  resembling  him, 
Of  silver  brow,  and  woman's  nerveless  limb: 
But  man! — all  man! — the  monarch  of  the  .wild! 
Not  the  faint  spirit — that  corrupting  smil'd 
On  soft  voluptuous  Greece— but  Nature's  child, 
Arrested  in  the  chase!  with  piercing  eye 
Fix'd  in  its  airy  light'ning  on  the  sky, 
Where  some  red  Bird  is  languid,  eddying,  drooping, 
Pierced  by  his  arrows  in  her  swiftest  stooping. 
Thus  springing  to  the  skies! — a  boy  will  stand 
With  arms  uplifted,  and  unconscious  hand 
Tracing  its  arrow  in  its  loftiest  flight — 
And  watch  it  kindling  as  it  cleaves  the  light, 
Of  worlds  unseen  but  by  the  Indian  sight; 
His  robe  and  hair  upon  the  wind  at  length, 
A  creature  of  the  hills! — all  grace  and  strength; 
All  muscle  and  all  flame — his  eager  eye 
Fixed  on  one  spot  as  if  he  could  descry 
His  bleeding  victim  nestling  in  the  sky. 
Not  that  Apollo! — not  the  heavenly  one, 
Voluptuous  spirit  of  a  setting  sun,— 


32  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

But  this — Hie  offspring  of  young  Solitude, 
Child  of  the  holy  spot,  where  none  intrude 
But  genii  of  the  torrent — cliff,  and  wood — 
Nursling  of  cloud  and  sterm — the  desert's  fiery  brood. 

Great  Nature's  man! — and  not  a  thing  all  light: 
Etherial  vision  of  distempered  sight; 
But  mingled  clouds  and  sunshine — flame  and  light. 
With  arrow  not  like  his  of  sport — that  go 
In  light  of  musick  from  a  silver  bow: 
But  barbed  with  flint — with  feather— reeking  red, 
The  heart-blood  that  some  famished  wolf  hath  shed! 

Ontario  of  the  woods!  may  no  broad  sail 
Ever  unfold  upon  thy  mountain  gale! 
T  hy  waters  were  thus  spread — so  fresh  and  blue 
But  for  thy  white  fowl  and  the  light  canoe. 
Should  once  the  smooth  dark  lustre  of  thy  breast 
W  ith  mightier  burthens,  ever  be  oppressed- 
Farewell  to  thee!  and  ail  thy  loveliness! 
Commerce  will  rear  her  arks — and  Nature's  d  ress 
Be  scattered  to  the  winds:  thy  shores  will  bloom, 
Like  dying  ftow'rets  sprinkled  o'er  a  tomb; 
The  feverish,  fleeting  lustre  of  the  flowers 
Burnt  into  life  in  Art's  unnatural  bowers; 
Not  the  green — graceful — wU4  luxuriance 
Of   Nature's  garlands,  in  th«ir  negligence* 
The  clambering  jassimine,  and  flushing  rose 
That  in  the  wilderness  their  hearts  disclose; 


BATTLE  OP  NIAGARA 

The  dewy  violet,  and  the  bud  of  gold, 
Where  drooping  lilies  on  the  wave  unfold; 
Where  nameless  flowers  hang  fainting  on  the  air, 
As  if  they  breathed  their  lovely  spirits  there; 
Where  heaven  itself  is  bluer,  and  the  light 
Is  but  a  coloured  fragrance — floating — bright; 
Where  the  sharp  note — and  whistling  song  is  heard, 
Of  many  a  golden  beak,  and  sunny  sparkling  bird: 

There  the  tame  honeysuckle  will  arise; 
The  gaudy  hot-house  plant  will  spread  its  dyes, 
In  flaunting  boldness  to  the  sunny  skies: 
And  sickly  buds,  as  soon  as  blown,  will  shed 
Their  fainting  leaves  o'er  their  untimely  bed; 
Unnatural  violets  in  the  blaze  appear — 
With  hearts  unwet  by  youthful  Flora's  tear: 
And  the  loose  poppy  with  its  sleepy  death, 
And  flashy  leaf:  the  warm  and  torpid  breath 
Of  lazy  garlands,  over  crawling  vines; 
The  tawdry  wreath  that  Fashion  intertwines 
To  deck  her  languid  brow:  the  streamy  gold, 
And  purple  flushing  of  the  tulip's  fold; 
And  velvet  buds,  of  crimson,  and  of  blue, 
Unchangeable  and  lifeless,  as  the  hue 
Of  Fashion's  gaudy  wreaths,  that  ne'er  were  wet  with 
dew. 

Such  flowers  as  travellers  would  not  stoop  to  bless, 
Tho'  seen  by  fountains  in  the  wilderness: 
5 


3*  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Sucli  heartless  flowers,  as  Love  would  disavow; 

And  blooming  Flora,  if  upon  her  brow 

Their  leaves  had  once  been  dropped,  would  feel  as  tho* 

Pollution's  lips  were  pressed  upon  its  snow: 

Not  the  white  blossom,  that  beneath  its  green 

And  glossy  shelter,  like  a  star  is  seen; 

Shrinking  and  closing  from  the  beam  of  day — 

A  virgin  flow'ret  for  the  twilight  ray: 

Not  the  blue  hare-bell  swelling  o'er  the  ground, 

And  thinly  echoing  to  the  fairy  bound 

Of  tripping  feet,  within  its  silky  round: 

Not  the  wild  snow  leaf  trembling  to  the  moon, 

But  the  tame  sun-flower  basking  in  the  noon. 

Where  now  red  Summer,  in  her  sporting,  weaves 
Her  brightest  blossoms  with  her  greenest  leaves: 
Where  the  wild  grape  hangs  dropping  in  the  shade 
O'er  unfledged  minstrels,  that  beneath  are  laid: 
Where  all  is  fragrant,  breathing  negligence; 
And  Nature's  budding  child,  sweet  Innocence; 
Where  now  her  treasures,  and  her  mysteries — 
Like  shrouded  diamonds— or  like  sleeping  eyes, 
Are  only  seen  by  those,  who  kneel  and  take 
Their  first  bright  beaming,  when  they  first  awake: 
Where  now,  fresh  streamlets  answer  to  the  hues 
Of  passing  seraph  wings,  that  drip  with  dews 
From  their  fresh  piunging  in  the  rainbow-bath, 
That  tempting  gushed  before  their  radiant  path: 
Where  fountains  sing,  and  sparkle  to  the  skies 
In  all  their  sweetest  desert  melodies; 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

The  prisoned  water  will  be  made  to  play 

In  one  eternal  glitter  to  the  day: 

Unnatural  freshness— arbours  will  be  seen — 

And  tortured  festoons  of  fantastick  green: 

The  heavy  grotto — and  the  loaded  bower: 

The  green  and  tepid  pond:    the  pale  wall-flower 

The  tasteless  mingling  of  the  savage  pine, 

With  the  bright  tendrils  of  the'  garden  vine: 

The  stooping  willow,  with  its  braided  light, 

And  feathery  tresses,  changeable  and  bright — 

The  airy  mountain  ash — the  elm — and  oak 

Rising  triumphant  from  the  Thunderer's  stroke; — 

In  all  their  rich  exuberance,  shooting  out 

Their  restless  sceptres,  to  the  winds  about, 

The  lordly  monarchs  of  the  vigorous  wood! 

Placed  by  the  towering— upstart-poplar  brood:— 

And  all  the  foppery  of  silly  Taste, 

That'grieves  to  see  wild  Nature  so  unchaste, 

That — in  her  modesty — would  barely  hint 

'That  such  and  such, a  shade,  and  such  a  tint 

'Might  mingle  better  if  a  little  care — 

'A  little  grouping  here — and  contrast  there, 

'Were  just  to— but  no  matter'-'-they  all  know 

Better  than  Nature,  how  her  flowers  should  blow; 

How  her  sweet  birds  should  sing,  and  fountains  flow — 

And  where  her  trees  should  stand— her  clitt's  should  rise 

> 

In  scattered  pointings  to  the  glorious  skies. 
Leave  such  cold  bosoms,  Nature,  to  their  fate; 
And  be  thou  grand — luxuriant— desolate— 


36  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

As  it  best  pleaseth  thee.    These  wretched  fools 
Would  have  Creation  work  by  lines  and  rules. 
Their's  is  the  destiny — be  theirs  the  curse, 
In  their  improvements  still— to   mount    from  bad  to 
worse. 

Be  ever  dark  Ontario!  and  be  wild 
In  thine  own  nakedness — young  nature's  childf 
Still  hang  her  festoons  o'er  thy  glittering  caves: 
Still  far  from  thee  the  pageantry  of  slaves! 
The  dull  cold  blooming  of  the  lifeless  wreaths, 
Plucked  from  the  gardens  where  Oppression  breathes: 
The  misty  poison  of  the  sultry  flowers, 
That  shed  their  sleep  in  artificial  bowers: 
May  Architecture  never  rear  her  spires 
Or  swell  her  domes  to  thy  warm  sunset  fires; 
Where  now,  o'er  verdant  pyramids  and  pines, 
And  dark  green  crowns,  the  crimson  lustre  shines! 
Enough  has  now  been  done — thou  art  but  free: 
Art  but  a  refuge  now  for  Liberty: 
E'en  now  the  wakening  thunder  sometimes  roars 
Above  thy  prostrate  oaks—the  guardians  of  thy  shores-. 

Roll  not  thy  waves  in  light,  Ontario! 
Forever  darkly  may  thy  waters  flow! — 
Through  thy  tall  shores  and  blooming  solitudes, 
Sacred  to  loneliness — and  caves — and  woods:— 
Roll  not  thy  waves  in  light— or  thou  wilt  see 
Their  bosoms  heave  no  longer  darkly  frees 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGAHA.  37 

But  whitening  into  foam  beneath  their  load, 
While  Commerce  ploughs  upon  her  flashing  road; 
And  thou  majest  stand,  and  hearken  to  the  cry 
Of  thy  young  genii  mounting  to  the  sky: 
And  feel  the  fanning  of  the  last  free  wing 
That's  shaken  o'er  thy  brow,  as  it  goes  wandering. 

O  be  thou  ever  free,  Ontario! 
Forever  thus  may  thy  free  waters  flow; 
Or  thou  mayest  lie  and  listen  to  the  roar 
Of  conquering  thunders  echoing  from  thy  shore; 
Thy  ramparts  and  thy  cliffs:  thy  citadels, 
Where  now  Sublimity,  with  Freedom,  dwells, 
Will  see  thy  conquerers  on  thy  mountains  rise,, 
With  glittering  banners  rustling  in  the  skies, 
And  see  their  streamers  flash,  and  hear  the  song 
Of  victory  o'er  thee,  go  pealingly  along. 

Hail  sleepless  monarch!     Dark  Ontario! 
Thou,  of  the  woods,  and  of  the  Indian  bow, 
I  see  thy  glories  in  their  dark  blue  flow! 
A  lake  of  wonders! — where  the  stars  appear 
In  thy  fair  deep  so  glorious  and  so  clear 
In  their  confusion!     All  thy  dim  shores  lie 
In  moonlight's  sleepy — soft  tranquillity. 
The  air  is  cool,  but  motionless,  about 
Is  something  of  enchantment,  and  of  doubt: 
As  in  the  fleeting  scenery  of  a  dream 
When  landscapes  come — and  vanish! — like  the  beam 


38  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

That  blue,  voluptuous  eyes  emit  in  tears, 

That  trembles — brightens — fades,  and  disappears! 

Something  mysterious — holy — like  the  air 

Of  caverns,  when  some  spirit  has  been  there; 

While  yet  the  breathing  incense  that  was  shed, 

Is  faint  and  floating  round,  like  sighings  o'er  the  dead. 

No  sound  is  on  the  ear:  no  boatman's  oar 
Drops  its  dull  signal  to  the  watchful  shore: 
But  all  is  listening,  as  it  were,  to  hear 
Some  seraph  harper  stooping  from  her  sphere, 
And  calling  on  the  desert  to  express, 
Its  sense  of  Silence  in  her  loveliness. 
What  holy  dreaming  comes  in  nights  like  these' 
When,  like  yon  wave — unruffled  by  a  breeze, 
The  mirrors  of  the  memory  all  are  spread, 
And  fanning  pinions  sail  around  your  head: 
When  all  that  man  may  love — alive  or  dead, 
Come  murmuring  sweet,  unutterable  things, 
And  nestle  on  his  heart  with  their  young  wings. 
And  all  perchance  may  come,  that  he  may  fear, 
And  mutter  doubtful  curses  in  his  ear; 
Hang  on  his  loaded  heart,  and  fill  his  brain 
With  indistinct  forbodings,  wild  and  vain; 
Who  has  not  felt  the  unexpected  tear? 
Who  has  not  shaken  with  an  awful  fear, 
When,  in  the  wilderness — alone — he  trod — 
Where,  since  4;here  walked  the  Everlasting  God — 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

No  living  foot  hath  been?  where  boundless  woods— 
Where  sanctuaries — waters — solitudes— 
In  open  stillness — hallowed  grandeur  spread, 
As  if  in  invitation  to  the  dead. 

The  moon  goes  lightly  o'er  her  thronging  way, 
And  shadowy  things  are  brightening  into  day; 
And  cliff,  and  shrub,  and  bank,  and  tree,  and  stone, 
Now  move  upon  the  eye — and  now  are  gone! 
A  dazzling  tapestry  is  hung  around: 
A  gorgeous  carpeting  bestrews  the  ground: 
The  willows  glitter  in  the  passing  beam, 
And  shake  their  tangling  lustres  o'er  the  stream: 
And  all  the  full,  rich  foilage  of  the  shore, 
Seems  with  a  quick  enchantment  frosted  o'er; 
And  dances  at  the  faintest  breath  of  night, 
And  trembles  like  a  plume  of  spangles  in  the  light. 

Far  o'er  the  slumbering  wave,  amid  the  shade, 
Millions  of  dancing  lights  are  thick  array'd: 
And  interposing  forms  are  seen  to  go, 
With  ceaseless  step,  unwearied,  firm  and  slow — 
In  measured  walking,  like  a  cavalcade — 
As  if  a  band  were  marshalled  for  parade — 
Before  a  line  of  fire,  that  redly  throws 
A  glimmering  richness  where  that  billow  flows; 
And  some  yet  feebler  lights  are  o'er  the  turf, 
Like  sea-foam,  brightening  faintly  o'er  the  surf. 


40  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

There,  Pestilence  hath  breathed!  within  each  tent 
The  midnight  bow,  with  quenchless  shaft— is  bent; 
And  many  a  youthful  hero  wastes  away, 
In  that— the  worst  of  deaths— the  death  of  slow  decay. 

This  dark,  cool  wave  is  bluer  than  the  deep, 
Where  sailors — children  of  the  tempest!  sleep; 
And  dropped  with  lights  as  pure — as  still  as  those — 
The  wide-drawn  hangings  of  the  skies  disclose, 
Far  lovelier  than  the  dim  and  broken  ray, 
That  Ocean's  flashing  surges  send  astray: 
And  when  the  foam  comes  loosely  o'er  its  breast, 
The  sea  maid's  bosom  with  its  studded  vest, 
That  mightier  billows  bear,  is  dark — is  dull 
To  this  light  silvery  spray,  so  beautiful! 
This  is  the  mirror  of  dim  Solitude, 
On  which  unholy  things  may  ne'er  intrude; 
That  frowns  and  ruffles  when  the  clouds  appear, 
Refusing  to  reflect  their  shapes  of  fear; 
Ontario's  deeps  are  spread  to  multiply 
But  sunshine — stars — the  moon — and  clear  blue  sky: 
The  ocean — when  at  peace — is  but  the  place 
Where  those  who  rule  the  tempest — dwell  in  space — 
Direct  the  thunder — rock  th*  established  hill— 
And  stedfast  shore;— whose  myriads  fill 
All  heaven  ancl  earth — and  air— are  wont  to  dwell, 
And  calm  themselves  upon  its  mightiest  swell. 

No  pirate  barque  was  ever  seen  to  ride, 
With  blood  red  streamer,  chacing  o'er  that  tide, 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Till  late,  no  bugles  o'er  those  waters  sang 

With  aught  but  hunstman's  orisons,  that  rang 

Their  clear— exulting— bold— triumphant  strain, 

Till  all  the  mountain  echoes  laughed  again! 

Till  caverns,  depths,  and  hills,  would  all  reply, 

And  heaven's  blue  arch  ring  back  the  sprightly  melody. 

Within  those  depths  no  shipwrecked  sailor  lies 
Upon  his  foaming  couch;  whose  dying  eyes 
Were  closed  amid  the  storm — with  no  one  near, 
To  grasp  his  hand,  or  drop  a  manly  tear: 
With  not  one  friend — one  shipmate  left  to  tell, 
As  'tis  in  strife — how  gallantly  he  fell. 
Not  one  to  tell  the  melancholy  tale, 
To  her,  whose  heart  is  on  the  rising  gale. 
Within  that  peaceful  sanctuary  sleep 
No  victim  wanderers  of  the  mighty  deep; 
No  ocean-wreaths  are  there — no  diadems 
Of  bloody  sea-weed,  sprinkled  o'er  with  gems, 
That  vanish  when  ye  touch  them,  like  the  pearl 
That  glitters  on  the  sea-maid's  shining  curl; 
No  wrecks  of  slaughter: — flags  in  battle  rent 
By  Victory  scattered  in  the  firmament: 
Not  one  of  all  those  trophies  of  the  flood, 
When  ship  encounters  ship,  and  foams  along  in  blood, 

August  amid  this  scene,  unclouded,  stand 
The  everlasting  hills  that  guard  our  landj 


42  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

And  rear  their  rocky  helmets,  where  the  sky 
Hath  pitched  their  tent  upon  immensity. 
These  are  our  forts!  our  battlements!  our  holds! 
Our  bulwarks!  our  entrenchments!  Here  unfolds 
The  rainbow  banner,  and  its  lights  are  forth 
In  sudden  splendours,  like  the  streaming  north: 
An  outspread  Eaglet,  o'er  each  standard  stoops, 
With  unclosed  beak,  and  wing  that  never  droops: 
And  stars  are  busy  there — and  through  the  night, 
A  constellation  blazes  on  the  sight: — 
Eagles!  and  stars!  and  rainbows!— all  abroad, 
Beneath  a  boundless  sky,  upon  a  mountain  road! 

And  LIBERTY,  from  whose  imperial  eye 
Unfettered  limb,  and  step  of  majesty, 
Perpetual  sunshine  wanders  on  the  air, 
When  undisturbed  by  man — in  wrath  is  there! 
And  prostrate  armies  now,  are  kneeling  round: 
They  see  the  rolling  clouds!  they  hear  the  sound 
Of  pealing  thunders!  While  her  martial  form 
Lightens  tremendous  o'er  the  gathering  storm. 
They  breathe  that  buoyant  mountain  atmosphere, 
And  kindling  in  their  eyes  those  lights  appear, — 
Those  quenchless  lights! — that  Despots,  Tyrants  dread, 
When  Man  comes  forth  in  might,  and  lifts  his  head 
Sublime  in  desperation;  when  they  hear 
The  song  of  trumpets  bursting  on  their  ear! 
The  shock  of  armies!  and  afar  behold 
Rebellion's  crimson  standard  all  unrolled: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  43 

When  slaves  are  men — are  moiiarchs — and  their  tread 

Comes  like  the  resurrection  of  the  dead: 

Man  bursts  his  fetters!  shakes  his  sheathless  sword — 

Stands  on  his  grave,  and  battles  with  his  lord 

For  sepulture  or  freedom — eye  to  eye: — 

And  swears  to  live  his  equal,  or  to  die 

In  glorious  martyrdom  to  glorious  LIBERTY.' 

Then  let  the  trumpet  of  the  battle  sound: 
Then  let  the  shuddering  challenge  peal  around: 
Till  all  our  ruffled  Eaglets  start  and  wake — 
And  scream  aloud — and  whet  their  beaks — and  shake, 
Their  guardian  wings,  o'er  mountain,  wood,  and  lake! 
The  blast  will  but  disturb  the  spirit  there; 
But  rouse  the  she-wolf  from  her  bloody  lair: 
But  wake  the  fiery-harnessed  multitudes; 
The  dark  battalions  of  untrodden  woods; 
Whose  viewless  chiefs  shall  gird  their  armour  on, 

o 

And  lighten  o'er  the  fields  their  valour  won: 
'Twill  waken  echoes  in  that  solitude, 
Less  welcome  than  the  panther's  cry  for  food: 
Less  earthly — than  the  voices  heard,  when  Night 
Collects  her  angels  on  some  stormy  height, 
And  airy  trumps  are  blown,  and  o'er  the  heaven 
Ten  thousand  fearful  challenges  are  given! 

Those  star-crowned  hills!  the  gathering  will  be  there 
Of  heaven's  dim  hordes,  the  squadrons  of  the  air! 
Erect  and  high,  upon  their  stormy  cars — 
In  meteor  armour — rushing  mid  the  stars, 


44  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

The  dusky  champions  of  the  earth  and  sky 

Will  seem  encountering  in  their  chivalry. 

Yon  moon-light  tents,  so  gallantly  outspread 

By  living  hands,  will  then  be  filled  with  dead: 

Whose  home  is  space:  the  habitation,,  too, 

Of  yon  perpetual  host,  that  walk  in  blue: 

That  endless  multitude!  eternal  source 

Of  wonder,  and  of  worship  in  their  course! 

O,  whither  is  your  march?  ye  stars!  and  whence"? 

Ye  blazing  myriads  of  Omnipotence! 

Ye  suns!  who  burst  from  darkness  with  our  earth, 

But  yet  come  forth  in  one  continual  birth! 

Almighty  miracles!  who  fill  the  air 

With  musick  and  witli  light,  as  if  ye  were 

A  host  of  living  harmonies,  that  roll 

With  worlds  and  worlds — all  intellect  and  soull 

Interpreters  of  God!  who've  called  to  man 

From  yon  eternal  vault,  since  time  began: 

Ye  midnight  travellers,  who  nightly,  move 

In  everlasting  pilgrimage  above! 

Ye  blazonry  of  power!  ye  heraldry  of  love! 

There's  one  who  stands  to  see  that  deep  blue  fold- 
Of  glories — suns — and  systems  all  unrolled, 
In  speechless  adoration, — with  an  eye 
Of  dampened  light  uplifted  to  the  sky; 
Who  half  forgets  the  signal  that  he  gave, 
And  echoing  answer  o'er  the  distant  wave: 
For  he  is  all  alone  upon  that  shore- 
Alone — at  night — what  could  he  think  of  more? 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  45 

He  speaks  not— moves  nob  his  uncovered  brow, 
If  one  might  see — perchance  is  gathered  now; 
His  attitude,  so  fixed,  is  that  of  thought — 
Something  of  stern  composure;  as  if  wrought 
With  dangerous  purpose  to  be  done  with  speed, 
Some  quick-matured — but  full-determined  deed: 
Now— o'er  the  dark  blue  waters  you  may  see 
His  eye  go  flashing  and  impatiently: 
And  now  his  helm  is  shaken — and  his  hand 
Is  partly  raised  as  if 'twere  in  command: 
The  dipping  of  an  oar  is  heard — a  boat  so  light, 
It  scarcely  touched  the  wave,  is  now  in  sight: 
Around  the  cliff  it  came,  like  some  keen  bird — 
That  passes  by  you  'ere  her  wing  is  heard: 
Like  the  enchanted  skiff  that  dreamers  see 
Self-moved  in  moonlight  i>reeze— light,  swift  and  cheer 
fully. 

An  Indian  springs  on  shore:  his  light  canoe 
Hath  vanished  like  a  spectre  from  the  view: 
Something  he  murmurs  in  the  sullen  tone 
Of  one  who  is  abandoned:  all  alone — 
Left  to  contend  with  many;  and  his  eye, 
So  rooted — deadly,  bodes  some  danger  nigh: 
Hush!  hush — a  rustling — and  a  fearful  pause — 
A  sword  is  half  unsheathed — the  Indian  draws 
His  arrow  to  the  head:  but  why? — no  sound — 
Of  thundering  tread,  is  echoing  on  the  ground: 
No  footstep  comes — no  cautious — stealing  foe— 
The  garland-float  is  heard,  and  watery-flow— 
And  nothing  else,  o'er  blue  Ontario. 


46  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

One  rapid  glance!  his  soul  is  all  revealed; 

Battle  is  near — hi&  swarthy  brow  is  sealed 

With  Indian-meaning^  and  his  serpent  eye 

Is  black  and  glittering  with  a  changeless  dye; 

The  stranger  too — as  if  he  scarcely  breathed, 

Stands  stooping — listening — with  his  blade  unsheathed: 

Silent  as  death  they  are;  one  glance — a  single  glance 

Was  but  exchanged — in  their  deep,  pulseless  trance — 

One  glance!  it  was  enough — and  each  was  sure 

Of  all  his  fellow  would  perform — endure. 

O — none  of  that  of  companionship  is  here, 

The  union  of  the  vulgar  when  in  fear: 

No  talk— no  whisper— but  the  steady  eye 

Of  dangerous-boding — stern  tranquillity: 

The  strong,  cool  brow — the  upright,  martial  tread 

Of  planted  strength— the  boldly  lifted  head. 

That  glance!  that  white  man's  glance— the  Indian  i<-    - 

What  none  but  Nature's  savage  man    conceals — 

The  swell  of  sympathy — of  brotherhood 

In  danger  and  in  death — in  solitude. 

Now — o'er  the  w  aters  ye  may  faintly  see 
A  shadowy  something  coming  silently: 
A  rushing  now  is  heard — and  spreading  large 
With  sail  upo  n  the  wind — there  comes  a  barge: 
And  yet,  methinks,  its  lightly  lifted  prow, 
Upon  its  glossy  path,  goes  wondrous  slow: 
It  comes — as  drifting  from  the  guarded  strand, 
And  looks  as  tho'  in  peace — unarmed — unmanned: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

This  has  a  quiet  aspect— but  that  sail 

Is  sharply  trimmed  as  if  it  might  prevail, 

In  ruder  nights  than  this,  against  a  fiercer  gale. 

A  Bird  of  prey,  perhaps — that  folds  its  wing — 
And  sits  upon  the  wave  in  slumbering; 
That  stoops  af  night— but  stay!  she  goes  about — 
Is  that  a  signal?— there!— that  light  throws  out? 
By  heaven,  'tis  answered! — answered  from  the  land! 
From  yonder  beetling  steep  is  stretched  a  hand! 
The  waters  foam — up  comes  the  boat  in  pride! 
Leaving  a  path  of  light  along  the  tide; 
And  ere  the  soldier  can  put  forth  his  blade, 
He  is  a  prisoner! — Round  him  are  arrayed 
A  hidden  band,  that  started  from  their  shade: 
A  band  with  bayonets  levelled  at  his  breast — 
The  circle  narrows — nods  each  threatening  crest: 
Contracting  slowly,  they  approach — as  they 
Still  feared  a  single  warriour,  when  at  bay: 
'Yield!'  cries  the  foremost  loudly, — fiercely — 'yield!' 
The  stranger  would  reply — but  sees  concealed 
Beneath  a  stooping  oak,  his  dark  ally, 
With  bended  bow — and  cool,  and  patient  eye,— 
He  waves  his  hand — the  arrows  point  is  dropp'd — 
The  death  shaft  of  a  foe  upon  its  flight  is  stopp'd. 
The  summons  is  repeated:  'Yield!*  he  cries, 
"With  anger  flashing  from  his  youthful  eyes: 
A  pause: — a  sudden  change  of  attitude  betrays 
A  naked  blade  to  his  imperious  gaze: 


*8  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

A  backward  step — 'a  dagger! — thus  revealed: — T 

What  could  he  think?-'Stranger!--that  point  concealed!' 

'  Concealed.'*  the  stranger  echoed:— and  it  came, 

With  startling  emphasis,  and  kindling  flame; 

Then — turning  silently,  he  shook  his  head 

In  calm  disdain,  and  with  his  lordly  tread 

And  gathered  cloak,  he  stood — as  one  who  feels 

That  every  spirit  round  him,  prostrate  kneels: 

He  grasps  his  trusty  hilt: — he  moves  away: 

The  circle  widens: — all  who  meet,  obey 

The  calm  command — firm  step — intrepid  eye 

Of  one  familiar  with  such  victory. 

Amid  the  working  of  that  mighty  spell 

He  had  escaped:  but  some  low  murmurs  fell, 

And  each  arose  in  heart:  their  wandering  eyes 

Now  lowered  in  silent  threat — now  sought  their  prize. 

The  charm  was  broken,  and  their  strength  returned: 

And  each  reproached  his  comrade,  while  he  burned 

To  wipe  away,  forever,  this  disgrace, 

And  meet  his  foe,  once  more! — but  face  to  face. 

'Tis  done:  their  prayer  is  granted: — their  pursuit 

Is  short  indeed.    Again  they  all  are  mute. 

He  stands  too  proudly — and  is  found  too  near, 

To  leave  them  their  last  hope — that  he  had  fled  in  fear. 

Their  angry  leader  is  the  first  to  break 
The  sullen  loneliness:  the  first  to  wake 
Some  sound — he  cares  not  what—so  it  be  life: 
Something  less  awful— be  it  even  strife. 


BATTLE  OP  NIAGARA.  49' 

'Stranger! J  he  cries  again,  'yeur  arms!  your  sword! — 
*0r'— pausing  faintly— 'or' — the  evening  word. 
The  stranger  smiled— advanced  his  foot,— and  said, 
While  all  stood  awe-struck  at  his  martial  tread, 
And  something  rustled  in  the  neighboring  shade: 
'Where  is  your  leader?— let  him  take  my  blade!' 
I  am  the  leader! — 

'You!  and  by  what  right 
•Arrest  ye  thus  a  traveller  at  night?' 
They  marked  his  port — his  keen,  unshifting  eye: 
His  half-raised  lip,  and  stand  of  majesty: 
His  calm — serene — and  almost  taunting  tone — 
\nd  yet — they  knew  their  prize! — he  was  alone. 
'A  traveller! — yes — and  ere  to-morrow's  light 
He  will  be  hanged  for  travelling  thus  at  night.' 
The  stranger's  hand  fell  sudden  on  his  hip, 
'Hanged!'  he  replied,  and  higher  curled  his  lip, 
And  lightnings  left  his  eye! — and  forth  he  stood 
Like  something  raised  within  that  solitude 
By  some  unholy  rite— upraised  in  wrath 
By  some  unhallowed  step  upon  his  path. 
He  struggled— heaved  as  if  he  gasped  for  breath — 
And  all  was  silent  then,  as  in  the  hour  of  death. 

At  last  the  swelling  of  his  chest  subsides — 
The  lightnings  pass  away— a  cold  smile  rides 
Upon  the  writhing  of  his  mighty  brow, 
And  glittering  breast— from  which  his  mantle's  flow; 

7 


50  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Is  opening  in  the  tumult  of  his  heart, — 

Like  the  last  splendours  of  the  storm,  that  part, 

And  on  the  rolling  clouds  in  softness  sleep: — 

Or  tender  moon-light  on  the  troubled  deep: 

'Hanged!'  he  repeated — 'hang  a  soldier — no! — 

'Soldiers  are  never  hanged.'— Forth  stepped  his  foe:— 

'No  more — your  arms! — a  dastard  midnight  spy 

'Should  never— never  like  a  soldier  die!' 

'A  spy!— enough* — and  forth  his  falchion  flew; 

A  shrill,  quick  summons  to  his  band  he  blew — 

Threw  off  his  cloak— against  the  high  rock  stood, 

And  bade  him  take  his  sword,  who  'dared  and  would!' 

'Charge!'  cried  the  leader,  'charge!'  and  drew  his  brand; 

Already  they  encounter,  hand  to  hand — 

But  pause — for  !«!— they  meet  with  men  and  steeds:— 

An  arrow  from  the  distant  shade  proceeds'. — 

The  foremost  falls — an  Indian  rushes  out, 

And  mingles  with  the  horseman's  furious  shout. 

And  sabres  streaming  clash,  his  thrilling  cries; 

Short  is  the  conflict— half  the  foot-band  dies. 

'Secure  them,'  cried  the  chief— I  must  away: 

'Speed  to  the  camp — return  by  break  of  day. 

The  barge  hath  fled — the  Indian,  where  is  her 
The  savage  man.— no  matter— he  is  free! 
Again  appears  the  skimming,  light  canoe- 
Forth  from  its  covert,  o'er  the  watery  blue, 
With  wondrous  impulse  now  it  swiftly  flies, 
Like  some  young  spirit  o'er  the  wintry  skies:*. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  » 

Now  underneath  the  clift'— now  up  a  stream 
Of  ruffled  shade,  it  passes  like  a  dream: 
Now  shooting  'thwart  a  tranquil,  lovely  sheet 
Of  shining  light,  it  goes  as  still  and  fleet, 
As  that  etherial  bark  that  sails  on  high 
Amid  the  lustre  of  a  dark  blue  sky: 
Now  on  the  flowery  bank  a  light  appears — 
A  cottage  nestles:— and  an  oak  uprears, 
With  all  its  giant  branches,  wide  outspread, 
Above  that  lonely  cot— its  thunder-blasted  head. 
And  there  the  stranger  stays:  beneath  that  oak, 
Whose  shattered  majesty  hath  felt  the  stroke 
Of  heaven's  own  thunder — yet  it  proudly  heaves 
A  giant  sceptre  wreathed  with  blasted  leaves— 
As  though  it  dared  the  elements,  and  stood 
The  gardian  of  that  cot — the  monarch  of  that  wood. 

Beneath  its  venerable  vault  he  stands: 
And  one  might  think,  who  saw  his  out-stretched  hands, 
That  something  more  than  soldiers  e'er  may  feel, 
Had  touched  him  with  its  holy,  calm  appeal: 
That  yonder  wave — the  heaven — the  earth — the  air 
Had  called  upon  his  spirit  for  her  prayer. 
His  eye  goes  dimly  o'er  the  midnight  scene: 
The  oak — the  cot — the  wood — the  faded  green — 
The  moon — the  sky — the  distant  moving  light — 
All! — all  are  gathering  on  his  dampened  sight. 
His  warriour-helm  and  plume,  his  fresh-dyed  blade 
Beneath  a  window,  on  the  turf  are  laid; 


52  BATTLE  OP  NIAGARA. 

The  panes  are  ruddy  thro*  the  clambering  vines 
And  blushing  leaves,  that  Summer  intertwines: 
In  warmer  tints  than  e'er  luxuriant  Spring, 
O'er  flower-embosomed  roof  led  wandering. 
His  pulses  quicken— for  a  rude  old  door 
Is  opened  by  the  wind:  he  sees  the  floor 
Strewed  with  white  sand,  on  which  he  used  to  trace 
His  boyhood's  battles — and  assign  a  place 
To  charging  hosts— and  give  the  Indian  yell— 
And  shout  to  hear  his  hoary  grandsire  tell, 
|Iow  he  had  fought  with  savages,  whose  breath 
He  felt  upon  his  cheek  like  mildew  till  his  death. 

Hark! — that  sweet  sons! — how  full  of  tenderness! 

o5 

O,  who  would  breathe  in  this  voluptuous  press 

Of  lulling  thoughts! — so  soothing  and  so  low; 

Like  singing  fountains  in  their  faintest  flow — 

It  is  as  if  some  holy — lovely  thing, 

Within  our  very  hearts  were  murmuring. 

The  soldier  listens,  and  his  hands  are  prest 

In  thankfulness,  and  trembling  on  his  breast: 

Now — on  the  very  window  where  he  stands 

Are  seen  a  clambering  infants  rosy  hands: 

And  now — ah  heaven! — blessings  on  that  smile!— 

Stay,  soldier  stay— 0,  linger  yet  awhile! 

An  airy  vision  now  appears,  with  eyes — 

As  tender  as  the  blue  of  weeping  skies: 

Yet  sunny  in  their  radiance,  as  that  blue 

When  sunset  glitters  on  its  falling  dew: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  53 

With  form — all  joy  and  dance — as  bright  and  free 
As  youthful  nyniph  of  mountain  Liberty: 
Or  pictured  angels  dreamt  by  poesy: 
A  blooming  infant  to  her  heart  is  prest; 
And  ah — a  mother's  song  is  lulling  it  to  rest! 

A  youthful  mother!  God  of  heaven!  is  there 
A  thing  beneath  the  skies,  so  holy  or  so  fair! 

A  single  bound!  our  chief  is  standing  there 
With  eye  all  rapture — and  with  brow  all  bare: 
'Bless  thee!' — at  length  he  murmured — 'bless  thee,lov£l 
'My  wife! — my  boy:'— Their  eyes  are  raised  above. 
His  soldier's  tread  of  sounding  strength  is  gone: 
A  choaking  transport  drowns  his  manly  tone. 
He  sees  the  closing  of  that  mild,  blue  eye, 
His  bosom  echoes  to  a  faint  low  cry: 
His  glorious  boy — springs  freshly  from  its  sleep; 
Shakes  his  thin  sun-curls,  while  his  eye-beams  leap 
As  half  in  fear — along  the  stranger's  dress — 
Then — half  advancing  yields  to  his  caress: — 
Then— peers  beneath  his  locks,  and  seeks  his  eye 
With  the  clear  look  of  careless  infancy, 
The  cherub  smile  of  love,  the  azure  of  the  sky. 

The  stranger  now  is  kneeling  by  the  side, 
Of  that  young  mother; — watching  for  the  tide 
Of  her  returning  life:— it  comes— a  glow 
Goes  faintly — slowly  o'er  her  cheek  and  brow: 


54  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

A  rising  of  the  gauze  that  lightly  shrouds, 
A  snowy  breast — like  twilight's  melting  clouds— 
In  nature's  pure,  still  eloquence  betrays 
The  feelings  of  the  heart,  that  reels  beneath  his  gaze. 

She  lives!  she  lives: — see  how  her  feelings  speak, 
Thro'  what  transparency  of  eye  and  cheek! 
Her  colour  comes  and  goes,  like  that  faint  ray, 
That  flits  o'er  lilies  at  the  close  of  day. 
O,  nature,  how  omnipotent! — that  sigh — 
That  youthful  mother,  in  her  ecstacy 
Feels  but  the  wandering  of  a  husbands  eye. 
Her  lip  now  ripens,  and  her  heaving  breast, 
Throbs  wildly  in  its  light,  and  now  subsides  to  rest. 

And  now  a  father  grasps  his  martial  hand: 
A  mother  and  a  sister  leaning  stand— 
A  mother — in  her  adoration— there! — 
With  clasping  hands  and  wildly  streaming  hair: 
A  sister — with  her  lip  of  pulpy  red, 
Swelling  and  trembling  at  his  martial  tread; 
A  father — and  a  soldier!  one  who  feels 
All  that  a  father  may— and  yet  his  heart  conceals. 

There  they  all  stand!  and  thro'  their  gathering  tears, 
The  smile  of  gratitude  and  pride  appears; 
While  o'er  his  manly  form  their  glances  fall; 
To  see  his  lordly  height— so  full— so  tall; 
The  gallant  bearing  of  his  swelling  chest; 
The  lofty  brow — commanding — and  at  rest! 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  55 

His  springing  port— his  strong,  determined  tread, 
That  sounded  like  a  threat— the  colour  spread 
In  health's  effulgent  brownness  o'er  his  cheek; 
The  glance  of  fire,  in  which  there  seemed  to  speak 
The  tamelessness  of  one  who'd  spend  his  life 
In  battle  and  in  storm — in  tempest  and  in  strife. 

There  stands  the  man  of  blood!  now  search  his  eye; 
See  ye  aught  there  of  that  cool  mastery, 
That  dwells  on  danger  with  untroubled  look? 
Aught  of  that  deadly  calmness,  that  will  brook 
No  flame  of  challenge  in  another's  gaze? 
Aught  of  that  desperate  meaning  which  betrays 
The  eye,  that  is  familiar  with  the  deed 
Of  midnight  battle,  where  the  mighty  bleed? 
When  valour — manhood— perish  by  the  blow 
From  unseen  hands,  that  lays  the  coward  low? 
No— ye  may  not.    That  youthful  glance  less  tame 
Than  the  quick  flashing  of  a  meteor  flame — 
Is  yet  of  generous  omen: — not  the  light 
That  burns  vindictive  on  the  blasted  sight: 
That  streams  from  bloody  falchions — lights  the  field 
Of  midnight  slaughter,  where  the  mighty  yielc 
Their  spirits  to  their  God,  in  silent  fight — 
The  war  of  murderers— wakened  but  in  night! 
His  is  the  flashing  eye  that  courts  the  day — 
The  pawing  steed — the  horn — the  full  display 
Of  colunns — banners — martial  minstrelsy— 
The  drums  of  earth — the  echoes  of  the  sky— 
The  trumpet-song  of  Death  and  cannon  pealing  high! 


56  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

'My  son,'  the  old  man  said,  'to-morrow  night— 
•I  learn  ye  mingle  in  a  glorious  fight. 
'Remember  then  my  words.    This  form,  so  old 
'Once  moved  in  blood,  where  mighty  Battle  tolled 
'The  warriour-knell  in  storm.    In  that  dread  hour 
'My  heart  was  always  sad.    The  sinewy  power 
'That  strung  my  arm,  was  not  the  gallant  tide 
'That  leaps  at  the  far  trump  in  rushing  pride. 
'The  blaze  that  wrapped  my  eye,  was  not  the  fire 
'That  kindles  redly  at  the  battle  quire. 
'Religion,  and  my  country  nerved  my  arm, 
'Fed  my  young  heart,  and  kept  my  eye-beam  warm. 
'My  gallant  boy—I  know  thou  art  full  brave, 
'That  evening  battle  ground — may  be  thy  bloody  grave! 

'Oh  no!'  the  mother  cries: — and  now  they  weep 
And  pray— as  we  will  pray  when  we're  asleep, 
With  ashy  lip — a  suffocating  prayer — that  dies 
In  broken  murmurs,  and  in  struggling  sighs: 
As  we  will  pray,  when  thro*  the  brooding  shade 
Unholy  sights,  by  Terrour's  torch  betrayed, 
Come  thronging,  darkly  in  delirium — 
With  heavy  wing— with  cloudy  breath— and  hum 
Of  one  unceasing  knell:  that  lonely  woe— 
That  sullen  boding — like  the  heavy  flow 
Of  far,  far  waves,  where  one  we  love  is  sleeping— 
When  we  are  set— we  know  not  how— a-weeping. 
That  young  wife  stoops, — as  she  would  hide  her  tears,* 
And  smile  with  hope  while  bowing  down  with  fears: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  $7 

With  heart  that  pants  and  flutters  to  be  free, 
Like  some  young  nestling,  stolen  from  its  tree, 
That  heaves  its  bosom— shakes  its  dazzling  plume, 
A  pulse  of  light  and  life,  entrapped  within  a  tomb! 

O,  precious  are  the  drops  that  women  shed 
Upon  the  living — dying — or  the  dead: 
They  are  the  silent  dews  that  tell  of  love; 
The  sprinkling  of  the  heart;  the  dews  that  prove 
The  fountain  of  the  soul  is  not  yet  dry; 
The  fount  that  God  hath  given  for  extacy! 
Whether  its  tribute  on  the  living  fall, 
Or  mingle  with  the  dew  upon  the  dead  man's  pall. 

Hark! — from  the  distant  shore  a  summons  deep: 
One  last  embrace:  once  more  they  meet  and  weep: 
Around  that  dear,  loved  group,  once  more  is  shed 
A  farewell  smile— a  parting  tear:  then  sped 
The  husband  to  the  war!     With  unhung  brand> 
And  helmeted  for  strife  he  joins  his  band! 

Far  and  away  they  are  coursing  again, 
O'er  the  clouded  hill,  and  the  darkened  plain, 
Now  choosing  the  turf  for  their  noiseless  route; 
Now  where  the  wet  sand  is  strown  thickest  about, 
Streams  their  long  line!  Like  a  mist  troop  they  ride, 
In  a  winding  cloud  o'er  the  near  mountain's  side; 
While  a  struggling  moon,  throws  a  lustre  as  dim 
As  a  sepulchre's  lamp,  and  the  vapours  that  swim, 
O'er  the  hill  and  the  heavens,  divide  as  they  fly: — 
The  videttes  of  winds  that  are  stationed  on  high!/ 
8 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 


CANTO  m. 

TlS  dark  abroad.    The  majesty  of  Night 
Bows  down  superbly  from  her  utmost  height: 
Stretches  her  starless  plumes  across  the  world; 
And  all  the  banners  of  the  winds  are  furled. 
How  heavily  we  breathe  amid  such  gloom! 
As  if  we  slumbered  in  creation's  tomb. 
It  is  the  noon  of  that  tremendous  hour, 
When  life  is  helpless,  and  the  dead  have  power: 
When  solitudes  are  peopled:  when  the  sky 
Is  swept  by  shady  wings  that  sailing  by 
Proclaim  their  watch  is  set:  when  hidden  rills 
Are  chirping  on  their  course;  and  all  the  hills 
Are  bright  with  armour: — when  the  starry  vests 
And  glittering  plumes,  and  fiery  twinkling  crests 
Of  moon-light  centinels,  are  sparkling  round, 
And  all  the  air  is  one  rich  floating  sound: 


60-  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

When  countless  voices,  in  the  day  unheard 

Are  piping  from  their  haunts:  and  every  bird 

That  loves  the  leafy  wood,  and  blooming  bower, 

And  echoing  cave,  is  singing  to  her  flower: 

When  every  lovely — every  lonely  place, 

Is  ringing  to  the  light  and  sandaled  pace 

Of  twinkling  feet;  and  all  about,  the  flow 

Of  new  born  fountains  murmuring  as  they  go: 

When  watery  tunes  are  richest— and  the  call, 

Of  wandering  streamlets,  as  they  part  and  fall 

In  foaming  melody,  is  all  around; 

Like  fairy  harps  beneath  enchanted  ground. 

Sweet  melancholy  musick!  like  the  breath 

Of  airy  flutes  that  blow,  before  an  infant's  death. 

It  is  that  hour  when  listening  ones  will  weep 
And  know  not  why:  when  we  would  gladly  sleep 
The  last  still  sleep;  and  feel  no  touch  of  fear, 
Till  we  are  startled  by  a  falling  tear. 
That  unexpected  gathers  in  our  eye, 
While  we  were  panting  for  yon  blessed  sky: 
That  hour  of  gratitude — of  whispering  prayer, 
When  we  can  hear  a  worship  in  the  air: 
When  we  are  lifted  from  the  earth,  and  feel 
Light  fanning  wings  around  us  faintly  wheel, 
And  o'er  our  lids  and  brow  a  blessing  steal: 
And  then — as  if  our  sins  were  all  forgiven-^ 
And  all  our  tears  were  wiped—and  we  in  heaven! 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

It  is  that  hour  of  quiet  extacy, 
When  every  ruffling  wind,  that  passes  by 
The  sleeping  leaf,  makes  busiest  minstrelsy: 
When  all  at  once!  amid  the  quivering  shade, 
Millions  of  diamond  sparklers,  are  betrayed! 
When  dry  leaves  rustle,  and  the  whistling  song 
Of  keen-tuned  grass,  comes  piercingly  along: 
When  windy  pipes  are  heard — and  many  a  lute* 
Is  touched  amid  the  skies,  and  then  is  mute: 
When  even  the  foliage  on  the  glittering  steep, 
Of  feathery  bloom — is  whispering  in  its  sleep: 
When  all  the  garlands  of  the  precipice, 
Shedding  their  blossoms,  in  their  moonlight  bliss, 
Are  floating  loosely  on  the  eddying  air, 
And  breathing  out  their  fragrant  spirits  there: 
And  all  their  braided  tresses  in  their  height, 
Are  talking  faintly  to  the  evening  light: 
When  every  cave  and  grot — and  bower  and  lake, 
And  drooping  flowret-bell,  are  all  awake: 
When  starry  eyes  are  burning  on  the  cliff 
Of  many  a  crouching  tyrant  too,  as  if 
Such  melodies  were  grateful  even  to  him: 
When  life  is  loveliest — and  the  blue  skies  swim 
In  lustre,  warm  as  sunshine — but  more  dim: 
When  all  the  holy  centinels  of  night 
Step  forth  to  watch  in  turn,  and  worship  by  their  light. 

Such  is  the  heur! — the  holy,  breathless  hour, 
When  such  sweet  minstrelsy,  hath  mightiest  power: 


62  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

When  sights  are  seen,  that  all  the  blaze  of  day 
Can  never  rival,  in  its  fierce  display: 
Such  is  the  hour — yet  not  a  sound  is  heard; 
No  sights  are  seen — no  melancholy  bird, 
Sings, tenderly  and  sweet;  but  all  the  air 
Is  thick  and  motionless — as  if  it  were 
A  prelude  to  some  dreadful  tragedy; 
Some  midnight  drama  of  an  opening  sky! 

The  Genius  of  the  mountain,  and  the  wood; 
The  stormy  Eagle,  and  her  rushing  brood; 
The  fire-eyed  tenant  of  the  desert  cave; 
The  gallant  spirit  of  the  roaring  wave; 
The  star-crowned  messengers  that  ride  the  air; 
The  meteor  watch-light,  with  its  streamy  hair, 
Threatening  and  sweeping  redly  from  the  hill; 
The  shaking  cascade — and  the  talking  rill 
Are  hushed  to  slumber  now — and  heaven  and  earth  art- 
still. 

And  now  the  daylight  comes! — slowly  it  rides, 
In  ridgy  lustre  o'er  the  cloudy  tides, 
Like  the  soft  foam  upon  the  billow's  breast; 
Or  feathery  light  upon  a  shadowy  crest; 
The  morning  Breezes  from  their  slumbers  wake, 
And  o'er  the  distant  hill-tops,  cheerly  shake 
Their  dewy  locks,  and  plume  themselves,  and  poise 
Their  rosy  wings,  and  listen  to  the  noise 
Of  echoes  wandering  from  the  world  below: 
The  distant  lake,  rejoicing  in  its  flow: 


BATTLE  OP  NIAGARA.  63 

The  bugles  ready  cry:  the  labouring  drum: 
The  neigh  of  steeds — and  the  incessant  hum 
That  the  bright  tenants  of  the  forest  send: 
The  sunrise  gun:  the  heave — the  wave — and  bend 
Of  everlasting  trees,  whose  busy  leaves 
Rustle  their  song  of  praise,  while  Ruin  weaves 
A  robe  of  verdure  for  their  yielding  bark; 
While  mossy  garlands— rich—and  full — and  dark, 
Creep  slowly  round  them.     Monarchs  of  the  wood! 
Whose  mighty  sceptres  sway  the  mountain  brood! 
Whose  aged  bosoms,  in  their  last  decay, 
Shelter  the  winged  idolaters  of  day: 
Who,  mid  the  desert  wild  sublimely  stand 
And  grapple  with  the  storm-god  hand  to  hand! 
Then  drop  like  weary  pyramids  away; 
Stupendous  monuments  of  calm  decay! 
As  yet  the  warring  thunders  have  not  rent, 
The  swimming  clouds,  the  brightening  firmament, 
The  lovely  mists  that  float  around  the  sky- 
Ruddy  and  rich  with  fresh  and  glorious  dye, 
Like  hovering  seraph  wings— or  robe  of  Poesy! 

Now  comes  the  sun  forth!  not  in  blaze  of  fire 
With  rain-bow  harnessed  coursers,  that  respire 
An  atmosphere  of  flame.    No  chariot  whirls 
O'er  reddening  clouds.    No  sunny  flag  unfurls 
O'er  rushing  smoke.    No  chargers  in  array 
Scatter  thro'  heaven  and  earth  their  fiery  spray. 


64  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

No  shouting  charioteer,  in  transport  flings 

Ten  thousand  anthems,  from  tumultuous  strings: 

And  round  and  round,  no  fresh-plumed  echoes  dance: 

No  airy  minstrils  in  the  flush  light  glance: 

No  rushing  melody  comes  strong  and  deep: 

And  far  away  no  fading  winglets  sweep: 

No  boundless  hymning,  o'er  the  blue  sky  rings, 

In  hallelujahs  to  the  King  of  kings: 

No  youthful  hours  are  seen.    No  ribbon  lash, 

Flings  its  gay  stripings  like  a  rainbow  flash, 

While  starry  crowns,  and  constellations  fade 

Before  the  glories  of  that  cavalcade, 

Whose  trappings  are  the  jewelry  of  heaven 

Embroidered  thickly  on  the  clouds  of  even. 

No! — no! — he  comes  not  thus  in  pomp,  and  light! 
A  new  creation  bursting  out  of  night! 
But  he  comes  darkly  forth!  in  storm  arrayed 
Like  the  red  Tempest  marshalled  in  her  shade, 
When  mountains  rock;  and  thunders  travelling  round, 
Hold  counsel  in  the  sky — and  midnight  trumps  resound! 

Hark!  the  deep  drums  again; — the  echoing  drums: 
Their  rousing  loudly  through  the  clear  air  comes. 
And  trumpets  dread  hourra! — its  plunging  blast 
Left  every  heart  a-heaving  as  it  past. 
In  that  wild  threatening  cry,  how  much  of  life! 
Of  martial  song! — the  minstrelsy  of  strife. 
A  flash! — a  vapour!  from  yon  fading  cloud 
The  cannon's  voice  comes  suddenly  aloud! 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  65 

Now  bursts  the  smothered  war!  and  proudly  rise 
Fresh  plumes  and  banners,  blazing  to  the  skies! 
And  farther  still,  the  loud  artillery  rolls 
Uninterrupted  thunder  to  the  poles! 

That  morning  sun  uprose  o'er  swelling  hearts, 
That,  ere  the  evening  sun  once  more  departs, 
Shall  cease  to  swell  on  earth.     That  trumpet's  voice 
For  the  last  time  hath  waked  them  to  rejoice: 
Yes — many  a  pulse  now  freely  throbbing  there, 
Hath  heard  its  requiem  in  the  morning  air. 

A  horseman! — surely  we  have  seen  that  steed— 
His  reaching  step — his  flowing  mane — his  speed: 
The  rein  is  loosened — upward  to  the  heaven, 
He  leaps,  as  if  the  battle  blast  were  given! 
That  youthful  rider,  what  an  awful  brow! — 
How  calm  and  grand! — and  now  he  nods — and  now— 
Faith, — 'tis  a  glorious  vision!  how  his  hair 
Is  blown  about  his  brow,  as  if  it  were 
A  living  ripeness  clustering  in  the  air! 
His  chest  is  heaving,  and  his  sunny  eye 
Goes  bright  and  fearless  o'er  the  clear  blue  sky: 
That  lip — that  brow — that  ardent,  piercing  look 
In  battle's  wildest  uproar  never  shook: 
No  frowning — and  no  effort — always  bright, 
And  always  careless — always — even  in  fight: 
And  yet  that  smile  of  his,  that  waving  hand 
And  nodding  plume,  among  his  chosen  band  v 

9 


66  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Have  a  determined  and  despotick  sway, 

O'er  hearts  and  souls,— that  never  would  obey 

The  lordliest  frown  that  ever  sat  in  cloud; 

The  stormiest  voice  that  ever  raged  aloud: 

The  darkest  helm  that  ever  nodded  proud: 

His  is  a  spirit  of  that  mighty  power, 

That  moves  the  calmest  in  the  troubled  hour: 

An  eye  that,  even  in  danger,  threatens  not: 

That,  once  encountered,  never  was  forgot: 

That  even  in  strife  looks  forth  with  beams  of  peace, 

And  brightens  as  the  thunders  of  the  battle  cease. 

His  march  was  victory — and  his  charger's  tread 
Hath  been  familiar  with  the  warriour's  bed — 
The  battle  field!     His  brow  was  always  bare, 
His  head  thrown  back,  his  right  arm  in  the  air! 
His  charger  leaping — plunging  as  he  came 
And  went  amid  the  battle  wrapped  in  flame; 
While  o'er  him  waved  the  star  flag,  thick  with  smoke, 
Unharmed  he  sat— and  like  the  thunder  spoke: 
Nodding  his  tall  plumes  to  the  trumpet's  blast 
The  fiercest  in  the  strife,  but  when  'twas  past, 
The  first  to  sheathe  his  blade — to  leave  the  battle,  last. 

The  drum  is  rolled  again.    The  bugle  sings; 
And  far  upon  the  wind  the  cross  flag  flings 
A  radiant  challenge  to  its  starry  foe, 
That  floats— a  sheet  of  light!— away  below, 
Where  troops  are  forming—slowly  in  the  night 
Of  mighty  waters;  where  an  angry  light 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  67 

Bounds  from  the  cataract,  and  fills  the  skies 
With  visions — rainbows — and  the  foamy  dies, 
That  one  may  see  at  morn  in  youthful  poet's  eyes. 

NIAGARA!  NIAGARA!     I  hear 
Thy  tumbling  waters.    And  I  see  thee  rear 
Thy  thundering  sceptre  to  the  clouded  skies: 
I  see  it  wave — I  hear  the  ocean  rise, 
And  roll  obedient  to  thy  call.     I  hear 
The  tempest-hymning  of  thy  floods  in  fear: 
The  quaking  mountains  and  the  nodding  trees-— 
The  reeling  birds  and  the  careering  breeze — 
The  tottering  hills,  unsteadied  in  thy  roar: 
Niagara!  as  thy  dark  waters  pour, 
One  everlasting  earthquake  rocks  thy  lofty  shore! 

There  spreads  the  red  cross  banner,  far  and  wide, 
Flapping  its  dark  blue,  as  'tis  wont  to  ride 
O'er  the  red  tempest,  on  the  mountain-tide. 
The  troops  of  Wellington  are  there;  a  veteran  band — 
Nursed  by  stern  Glory  in  her  favorite  land: 
The  guardians  of  the  Spaniard,  when  subdued, 
And  trampled  in  the  dust:  a  band  that  stood 
Forth  with  that  banner,  floating  like  a  shroud, 
And  battled  on  the  mountain  in  a  cloud 
With  high — stupendous  Gaul,  until  her  genius  bowed. 

Stern  eyes  are  lifted  to  it,  as  it  leans 
Away  upon  the  breeze:  and  long  past  scenes, 
Of  home  and  country,  o'er  the  heaving  main — 
Of  fire-side  peace,  are  conjured  up  again: 


6»  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Parents— and  wife— and  children:— and  young  eyes 

Of  weeping  love,  are  looking  from  the  skies: 

And  murmuring  prayers  are  near  again: — and  dreams 

Of  parting  lips:  and  many  a  dark  eye  beams 

Upon  its  soldiers  heart,  as  it  had  done, 

When  they  had  parted — parted! — all  alone. 

And  every  friend  they  had  was  going  one  by  one. 

From  the  horizon  now,  a  gathering  cloud 
Comes  darkly  o'er  the  hills;  and  now  a  crowd 
Of  methers,  fathers,  sisters,  lovers,  friends, 
Come  forth  to  pray  for  those,  whom  Glory  sends 
In  pomp  and  fever  to  the  field  of  death; 
A  throng,  who  came  to  pour  their  erring  breath, 
To  him — the  GOD  OF  PEACE! — who  sits  on  high; 
To  pray  that  he  will  bless  the  fiery  eye; 
And  bloody  hand,  that  smites  in  iron  wrath 
A  brother  to  the  dust! — and  light  the  path 
Of  him  who  rides,  in  battle  and  in  blood, 
Carving  that  brother  for  the  shrieking  brood, 
That  snuff  the  coming  war,  and  drink  the  vital  flood. 

Yonder  on  snow  white  charger,  treading  proud; 
A  red-cross  chieftain,  goes  to  meet  that  crowd: 
And  aged  warriour,  and  a  valiant  one: 
A  hero  of  the  battles  that  are  done. 
The  pipe  sounds  cheerly!  and  their  steady  tread, 
And  long,  firm  steppings,  as  their  columns  spread 
Their  glancing  splendours,  o'er  the  distant  hill; 
Their  flapping  banners — and  their  horns  that  fill 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  69 

All  heaven,  and  earth,  and  air  with  martial  song, 
As  their  proud  foot-line  winds  its  length  along, 
Would  seem  the  pageantry  of  Peace,  instead 
Of  battle  cavalcade  by  Slaughter  led. 

Who  is  that  drooping  one  with  snowy  breast; 
Shrinking  like  virgins  when  they're  first  carest; 
With  full,  dark  eye,  and  melancholy  smile 
And  glistening  lash,  that's  standing  there  the  while 
That  aged  man  comes  up!  How  pale  that  cheek! 
And  yet,  how  eloquent!  0,  she  can  speak 
With  that  dark  lash  and  that  slow  dropping  tear 
Unutterable  thoughts — when  one  is  near, 
In  solitude  and  silence — that  is  dear. 
But  see!— she  moves—and  now  her  wild  dark  eye 
Is  flashing — lifted:  something  passes  by: 
A  youth  in  armour!  what  a  glorious  face! 
And  now  he  reins  his  barb:  with  what  a  grace- 
He  waves  his  snowy  helmet — and  his  hand, — 
How  full  of  noble  spirit  and  command! 
A  gallant  glorious  form — but  yet  a  boy; 
An  eye  of  terrour  and  a  lip  of  joy. 
Sure  he  has  lost  the  rein! — his  fiery  steed 
Goes  plunging  so,  with  such  a  fearful  speed: 
He  has!  he  has!— a  shriek!  he  has  indeed! 
That  waving  of  his  helm— that  loosened  rein — 
O  God — the  precipice! — it  is  in  vain — 
Yet  stay — what  death-like  silence — now  he  wheels! 
And  every  heart  breathes  out:  and  every  bosom  feels, 


70  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

The  cool  air  coming  freshly — can  it  be! 
Is  that  the  fiery  steed?  can  this  be  he? 
The  rider — that  was  bending  o'er  the  mane? 
This  the  fierce  steed  that  caught  the  losened  rein? 
Foaming  he  comes,  with  glossy  neck  arched  high, 
And  stately  step,  and  wildly  rolling  eye- 
Rattling  his  bits,  and  reaching  with  his  head:— 
This  that  fierce  steed?  why,  how  composed  his  tread! 
The  horseman  too,  how  steady,  light  and  high 
Sits  that  young  spirit  with  his  lightning  eye, 
And  smiling  lip.     See,  how  his  panting  breast 
Is  heaving  yet  beneath  his  studded  vest. 
The  gathered  rein — the  firm,  elastick  seat 
Of  airy  grace:  how  young — yet  how  complete! 
Forth  flies  his  blade— the  aged  warriour  comes— 
Bow  the  high  banners!  roll  the  answering  drums! 

And  now  amid  a  throng  of  sparkling  eyes 
In  terrour  lifted  to  the  bright  blue  skies; 
Slow  tears  of  thankfulness  and  joy  are  flowing; 
And  round  about  a  languid  cheek  are  blowing, 
Rich  silkiness  and  shade:  and  faintly — slow, 
A  lovely  hand  goes  o'er  a  brow  of  snow — 
In  woman's  meekest — loveliest  helplessness:— 
The  lifeless  grace  of  beauty  in  distress: 
But  see!  she  wakes— and  forth  with  glittering  eye, 
And  burning  cheek,  and  form  erect  and  high, 
She  steps  in  light!  That  melancholy  maid 
Stands  like  Minerva  for  the  war  arrayed! 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  71 

How  altered!  yet  how  lovely  in  her  change! 
How  suticlen  and  complete — indeed  'tis  strange 
That  such  a  transformation  should  be  wrought 
So  instantaneously — 'twas  brief  as  thought. 
Now  banners  float,  and  mid  that  tented  plain 
She  and  the  warriour  meet:   and  and  o'er  the  mane 
Of  his  white  steed,  he  bows— and  now 
Presses  his  old  lip  to  her  snowy  brow; 
'Farewell,  my  child — farewell!'  the  warriour  says, 
His  high  plume  shaking  in  the  sunny  blaze; 
And  glancing  to  her  heart  its  cheerful  dye, 
As  hurrying — faltering — with  averted  eye — 
That  tells  for  whom  the  silent  prayer  is  made — 
While  on  her  heart  one  trembling  hand  is  laid, 
She  waves  the  other  as  they  speed  away, 
Where  the  keen  streamers  of  their  Britons  play. 
A  tear  came  slowly  in  her  wandering  eye; 
The  parting  seemed  so  sad — she  knew  not  why: 
As  far  upon  the  wind  the  white  steeds  flew 
Like  grey  hounds  brushing  off  the  heather's  morning 
dew. 

Yon  sick  man,  bending  to  the  earth,  hath  been 
In  the  red  strife  himself — hath  often  seen 
In  other  days,  a  flashing  helm  laid  low, 
While  yet  it  shook  in  triumph  o'er  its  foe: 
In  that  gay  band  whose  tramp  is  passing  far, 
That  go  in  revelry  and  song  to  war, 
That  sick  man  hath  a  brother — young  and  brave: 
That  brother! — he  is  riding  to  his  grave. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 


CANTO  IV. 

-T  RESHER  and  fresher  comes  the  air.     The  blue 

Of  yonder  high  pavillion  swims  in  dew. 

The  boundless  hum  that  sunset  waked  in  glee: 

The  dark  wood's  vesper-hymn  to  Liberty — 

Hath  died  away.    A  deep  outspreading  hush 

Is  on  the  air.    The  heavy,  watery  rush 

Of  far  off  lake-tides,  and  the  weighty  roll 

Of  tumbling  deeps,  that  fall  upon  the  soul 

Like  the  strong  lulling  of  the  ocean  wave 

In  dying  thunder  o'er  the  sailor's  grave: 

And  now  and  then  a  blueish  flare  is  spread 

Faint  o'er  the  western  heavens,  as  if  Were  shed 

In  dreadful  omen  to  the  coming  dead. 

As  if — amid  the  skies,  some  warriour  form 

Revealed  his  armour  thro'  a  robe  of  storm! 


T6  BATTLE  OP  NIAGARA. 

The  shadows  deepen.    Now  the  leaden  tramp 
Of  stationed  sentry — far — and  flat — and  damp— 
Sounds  like  the  measured  death-step,  when  it  comes 
With  the  deep  minstrelsy  of  unstrung  drums: 
In  heavy  pomp— with  pauses — o'er  the  grave 
Where  soldiers  bury  soldiers:  wh  ere  the  wave 
Of  sable  plume^ — and  darkened  flags  are  seen — 
And  trailing  steeds  with  funeral  lights  between: 
And  folded  arms — and  boding  horns — and  tread 
Of  martial  feet  descending  to  the  bed, 
Where  Glory — Fame — Ambition  lie  in  state, 
To  give  the  nuptial  clasp,  and  wreath  that  Fate 
Wove  in  the  battle  storm,  their  brows  to  decorate. 

Listen! — there  comes  a  distant,  wandering  sliout, 
A  sound,  as  if  a  challenge  passed  about: 
A  gun  is  heard!  0,  can  it  be  indeed 
That  on  a  night,  like  this,  brave  men  may  bleed! 
Now  comes, — all  rushing — with  a  fiery  start — 
The  struggling  neigh  of  steeds,  as  if  they  part 
Upon  the  mountain  tops,  where  cloud-tides  break, 
And  rear  upon  the  winds!  and  plunge,  and  shake 
Their  voices  proudly  o'er  a  sleeping  lake. 
A  heavy  walk  is  heard.    They  come,  indeed; 
They  come,  the  Star-troops!  while  the  Eagle-breed 
Flap    loudly  o'er  each  helm,  and  o'er  each  roaming 
steed. 

Here,  by  one  side,  the  red-cross  troop  is  placed: 
A  lordly  banner,  never  yet  disgraced 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  77 

By  that  young  gallant  troop.    Beneath  its  fold 
Of  blue  magnificence,  so  wide  unrolled, 
TheyVe  bowed,  and  sworn  upon  a  naked  blade, 
That  banner,  there!  shall  never  be  betrayed. 
They've  sworn  to  bathe  it  in  their  heart's  best  blood: 
To  loosen 'neath  its  fold  their  reddest  flood. 
No  threats  escape  their  lips — that  blue  flag  flies 
O'er  the  dark  lowering  of  young  British  eyes. 
They  know  the  post  they  hold:  they  know  the  hour 
Is  sternly  coming  that  shall  try  their  power: 
They  know  the  Eagle  troops:  they  hear  their  tread:- 
And  each  more  proudly  heaves  his  youthful  head: 
They  see  the  starry  banner  floating  wide: 
And  fiercer  shines  their  meteor  in  its  pride: 
Each  plants  his  foot:  and  each  with  steady  eye 
And  hard  drawn  breath — and  forehead  to  the  sky- 
Looks  on  the  coming  host  for  life  or  death,— 
The  glittering  laurel  crown,  or  weeping  cypress  wreath-. 

They  come!  they  come!— the  starry  flag  is  bright; 
Shaking  its  splendours  in  the  parting  light. 
Right  martial  is  their  step.     Their  heads  are  high. 
Their  chests  heave  full.     Their  look  is  on  the  sky. 
Before  his  column  with  a  brow  serene, 
Upon  his  stately  barb,  a  chief  is  seen: 
His  head  uncovered;— while  his  flashing  eye 
And  echoed  word  along  his  far  ranks  fly 
With  flash  and  sound  as  brief  as  counted  musketry. 


78  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

Now  roar  the  joyous  drums!  The  trumpet-song 
Comes  swelling— rending—bursting  all  along! 
Like  the  dread  summons  by  the  whirlwind  cast, 
When  she  sings  fiercely  in  the  coming  blast. 
That  leader  waves  his  sword!  the  standards  bow, 
And  now  unroll  upon  the  wind — and  now, 
Borne  silently  aloft,  they  flash  away 
Upon  the  distant  wings,  like  heralds  of  the  day. 

Their  columns  now  unfold.    Their  martial  tread 
Is  firm  and  steady  as  they  wheel  and  spread. 
Now  one  deep  phalanx  in  their  strength  advance, 
Silent  as  death.    Dimmed  is  the  banner  glance: 
The  ringing  harness  and  the  sabres  swing 
Is  now  unheard.    No  thrilling  bugles  sing: 
No  shouting  stirs  the  blood— no  waving  plume 
Gives  Glory's  signal  in  the  thickening  gloom: 
But  forward — forward! — with  unshaken  tread 
With  Battles  earthquake  march,  when  shuddering  dead 
Feel  every  step  that  falls  above  their  head. 

The  soldiers  of  the  red-cross,  on  the  hill 
Wave  high  their  matches! — And  they  stand  as  still 
As  if  they  knew  they  stood  upon  their  tomb: 
But  not  from  fear — or  if  they  did — what  then? 
Their  courage  is  the  soul's! — they  are  the  men 
That  ye  may  trust  to  in  the  hour  of  need: 
Their  lips  may  fade  'tis  true,  but  they  will  bleed 
Where'er  they  set  their  foot  until  their  souls  are  freed. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  79 

Now  peals  the  thronged  artillery!— Far,  and  wide, 
Beyond  the  starry  flag  its  thunders  ride! 
No  answer  from  the  foe. 

His  steady  tread 
Paused  not  a  moment  as  that  volley  sped. 

Again  the  tempest  pours!  -In  rushing  fire, 
Again  the  thunders  roll! 

But  all  the  higher, 

Floats  the  striped  flag — in  triumph  and  in  pride; 
Like  the  red  rainbow  o'er  the  glimmering  tide. 

Still  onward  come  its  guards:  determined — slow: 
Mounting  as  if  to  grapple  with  their  foe 
Within  his  cloud:     While  their  batallions  spread, 
And  close,  and  open  with  the  same  strong  tread, 
Revealed  in  light.    That  tempest  light!— it  strays 
In  one  wide  sheet:   uninterrupted  blaze! 

Still  onward  come  this  band.     Still  no  reply: 
Withholding  all  their  might  till  eye  to  eye. 
They  tread  the  summit  of  that  quaking  mount, 
To  quench  that  stormy  light — that  Mtne&n  fount: 
Then  will  the  clouds  depart,  and  ye  will  see 
The  Eagle-standard  floating  far  and  free: 
And  gallant  warriours  on  the  naked  ground 
In  prostrate  adoration  to  the  sound 
Of  bursting  trumpets,  and  of  neighing  steeds: 
Of  waving  helms,  whose  reeking  plumage  bleeds 


80  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

With  life  of  gallant  hearts,  that  heave  around 
In  agony  to  hear  the  brazen  trumpet's  sound. 

Now  comes  the  bursting  strife.    The  answer  peals! 
Forth,  in  a  blaze  of  fire,  their  squadron  wheels! 
Now  rolls  the  battle!  Fades  the  lightning  sheet! 
The  charge  is  given!  Bayonets  with  bayonets  meet: 
And  struggling  hearts  with  hearts:  and  fiercely  rise 
Contending  shouts  and  spirits  to  the  skies. 
Neighings  grow  faint.    The  cannon's  thunder  dies: 
Red  Slaughter  shakes  her  storm-plumes  o'er  the  plain* 
And  flaps  her  reeking  flag: — but  all  in  vain, — 
For  standards  bow!  and  steeds  fly  o'er  the  plain! 
Tis  done;  the  strife  is  o'er.     The  clouds  are  gone — 
The  starry-flag  is  floating  there  alone. 

And  is  the  battle  won?  the  struggle  o'er? 
O,  no! — the  trumpet-song  and  cannon  roar 
Have  but  begun:  the  night  shall  wear  away 
Eer  banners  blazing  in  their  red  display; 
And  flashing  plumes,  and  helmets  glancing  bright, 
Reveal  the  conquerers  to  the  dazzled  sight. 
Then  ye  shall  see  the  shattered  warriour-blade 
The  banner  rent:— quenched  plume — and   steed,  that 

neighed 

Like  the  fierce  trumpet,  when  the  battle  pealed, 
With  all  his  furniture  upon  the  field, 
Bedimmed  in  gallant  blood!  Then  ye  may  know 
Who  were  the  conquered:  they  will  all  lie  low 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  81 

Far  now  the  wet  folds  of  the  red  cross  wave; 
Still  leaning  towards  the  strife— full,  high,  and  brave: 
Still  rolls  the  wide  artillery:  Still  the  light 
Rushes  in  boding  thickness  from  that  height: 
But  other  hands  direct  its  thunders  now; 
The  rainbow  flag  is  there,  with  sheeted  flow, 
And  they  with  silent  tread,  and  cool  determined  brow. 

Amid  the  fading  light  on  that  red  ground, 
An  aged  warriour  lies,  and  pours  a  sound 
That  tells  of  battle  yet:  and  feebly  tries 
To  staunch  his  ebbing  wound:  to  clear  his  eyes: 
And  think  once  more,  distinctly,  of  his  home: 
But  all  in  vain!  a  dark,  and  darker  foam 
Comes  from  his  heart;  and  now  his  dying  hand 
Is  once  more  stretched — but  not  as  in  command- 
No!  not  as  if  it  dealt  a  warriour**  brand — 
And  lightened  thro'  the  war! — but  more  in  prayer — 
As  if  some  child,  that  he  would  bless,  were  there: 
Convulsive — sudden — grasping! — towards  the  heaven 
'Tis  reached — like  one — whose  last,  last  stay  is  riven. 
Not  waving— no! — but  closing  as  it  goes, 
As  if  it  sought  another's — not  a  foe's! 
And  now  it  feebler  drops— and  now  again 
'Tis  lifted  as  in  prayer:  but  all  in  vain; 
He  cannot  bless  his  child! — his  strength  is  gone— 
The  damps  of  death  are  on  his  brow:  his  tone 
Of  murmuring  supplication — dies  away — 
And  both  his  bloody  hands  are  in  his  locks  of  grey. 
11 


82  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

And  near  him — planted — with  the  glittering  eye, 
Of  sudden  madness,  rolling  awfully, — 
A  youthful  form  is  seen — with  hands  that  press 
Upon  his  bosom  — fixed  and  motionless! 
Now  staring  on  the  armour  strown  around, 
As  in  a  trance:  now  listening  to  the  sound 
Of  ruffling  banners,  as  they  loosely  wave, 
Like  one  that  rises  armed  from  his  grave 
In  fierce  rebuke.  And  now — have  mercy  heaven! 
He  staggers— waves  his  arm — his  white  brow  riven, 
And  streaming  with  his  blood!  And  O,  that  nod!— 
He  moves  again  in  light,  as  if  he  trod 
Upon  the  battle's  verge— and  heaves  his  brow 
Of  bleeding  nakedness  as  if  e'en  now, 
It  wore  the  meteor  signal  for  the  fight— 
The  tall  plume  nodding  in  its  snowy  white! 
And  now  he  stands  as  if  he  would  express 
Some  princely  thought  and  felt  his  helplessness: 
And  hark!— a  shout! — a  sudden  thrilling  cry — 
Of  fearful  energy— 'they  fly!  they  fly!' 
Again  he  waves  his  arm — and  shouts! — again 
He  stands  as  if  he  grasped  some  charger's  mane, 
Some  struggling  barb — and  strove  to  mount  in  vain:- 
Again  he  shouts!— again  he  feebly  tries 
To  look  once  more  upon  the  passing  skies — 
Clasps  his  young  hands,  and  reels  and  falls  and  dies. 

There  flutters  round  him  many  a  gallant  soul— 
For  the  last  time  too,  many  dim  eyes  roll: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  83 

And  gasping— swelling — in  the  sulphurous  air 
Sobs  many  a  broken  cry,  and  many  a  prayer. 
Soldiers,  and  great  ones — are  around  him  laid, 
Who  dealt  their  broad  swords,  like  the  gleaming  blade, 
That  the  Destroyer  wields,  when  heaven  is  wrapped  in 
shade. 

The  battle  comes  again.    The  charging  host 
Are  Britons — chosen  ones— their  army's  boast. 
Reddening  they  come  in  martyrdom  to  Fame; 
Shaking  their  snowy  plumes  in  cloud  and  flame. 
Bravely  their  banner  is  abroad  outspread — 
Alive  their  meteor,  and  their  shroud  when  dead. 
The  tumult  deepens.     Swell  conflicting  cries: 
Neigh  the  loud  steeds,  and  hurried  sobs  arise. 
Shakes  that  dark  hill  with  cataracts  of  fire: 
Up  go  that  army  to  their  blazing  pyre! 
The  cannon's  voice  is  mute.     The  lightning  sheet 
Grows  dim  again.     Warriours  with  warriours  meet, — 
And  wrestle  fiercely  in  their  rolling  cloud. 
Again  the  mountain  shakes!  again  the  light 
Comes  thundering  loudly  down — the  blazing  flight 
Of  starry  banners  are  abroad  again, 
And  neighing — plunging— o'er  the  clouded  plain, 
Goes  many  a  fiery  barb  with  crimson  reeking  mane: 
Again  the  meteors  of  the  war  are  bowed: 
Again  the  mountain  heaves  beneath  its  shroud: 
Gushes  with  quenchless  light  and  shakes  and  storms 
aloud. 


84  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

So  darkly  clouded  was  that  hill  with  smoke, 
Save  when  the  vast  artillery  day-light  broke, 
It  seemed  a  midnight  altar.     From  its  gloom, 
There  came  the  noise  of  strife  as  from  a  tomb. 
And  then,  distinct,  amidst  the  spreading  light 
Were  seen  the  struggling  champions  of  the  fight, 
In  silent — desperate — dreadful  bayonet  strife: 
The  midnight  slaughter!  when  the  hero's  life— 
The  high — stern  summons  that  he  gives  his  band— 
His  waving  falchion — and  extended  hand-?- 
His  towering  plume — his  charger's  bloody  mane— 
The  battle-anthem  and  the  bugle  strain — 
Are  beamless — lifeless!  heard  and  seen  no  more: 
Thus  'tis  when  bayonets  hush  the  cannon's  roar. 
The  blazing  would  be  gone!  and  with  it,  lo! 
These  darkly  wrestling  groups  would  come  and  go, 
Like  wizard  shapes  at  night  upon  the  snow — 
That  glitters  to  the  moon,  upon  some  mountain's  brow. 

So  stood  the  battle.    Bravely  it  was  fought. 
Lions  and  Eagles  met.    That  hill  was  bought, 
And  sold  in  desperate  combat.     Wrapped  in  flame, 
Died  these  idolaters  of  bannered  Fame. 
Three  times  that  meteor  hill  was  bravely  lost — 
Three  times  'twas  bravely  won;  while  madly  tost, 
Encountering  red  plumes  in  the  dusky  air: 
While  Slaughter  shouted  in  her  bloody  lair. 
And  spectres  blew  their  horns  and  shook  their  whist 
ling  hair. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  85 

A  long  and  dreadful  pause.  No  sound  is  heard 
But  the  fresh  rustling  ol'  a  mighty  Bird, 
That  sat  upon  the  banner  of  that  host: 
That  Eagle  of  the  strife! — when  tempest  tost 
The  boy  that  rides  sublime  the  mountain  waves, 
Looks  on  that  Bird  in  prayer.    The  Bird  that  laves 
Her  sounding  pinions  it  the  sun's  first  gush — 
Drinks  his  meridian  blaze  and  sunset  flush: 
Worships  her  idol  in  his  fiercest  hour: 
Baths  her  full  bosom  in  his  hottest  shower: 
Sits  amid  stirring  stars,  and  bends  his  beak 
Like  the  slipped  falcon,  when  her  piercing  shriek 
Tells  that  she  stoops  upon  her  cleaving  wing, 
To  drink  anew  some  victim's  clear-red  spring. 
That  monarch  Bird!   that  slumbers  in  the  night, 
Upon  the  lofty  air-peak's  utmost  height: 
Or  sleeps  upon  the  wing — amid  the  ray 
Of  steady — cloudless — everlasting  day! 
Rides  with  the  thunderer  in  his  blazing  march: 
And  bears  his  lightnings  o'er  yon  boundless  arch: 
Soars  wheeling  tho'  the  storm,  and  screams  away 
Where  the  young  pinions  of  the  morning  play: 
Broods  with  her  arrows  in  the  hurricane: 
Bears  her  green  laurel  o'er  the  starry  plain. 
And  sails  around  the  skies  and  o'er  the  rolling  deeps 
With  still  unwearied  wing  and  eye  that  never  sleeps. 

The  rustling  of  that  silk  alone  is  heard, 
Where  burns  that  soldier  idol;— mountain  Bird! 


86  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

And  the  deep  groans  of  dying  men,  who  heave 

Their  last  sad  prayer;  of  those  who  bleed  and  grieve, 

In  shattered  manhood,  on  the  bloody  path, 

That  led  where  Glory  sat  in  stormy  wrath; 

The  faint,  low  watchword — and  the  thronging  tramp — 

And  ringing  harness  of  the  distant  camp: 

And  the  flood  anthem  on  the  night  winds  blown, 

Sullen  and  heavy  as  the  Thunderer's  tone, 

When  far  amid  the  Alps  his  chariot  rolls. 

And  the  high  mountain  quakes:  aud  the  far  poles 

Rock  in  their  outspread  canopy  of  cloud: 

When  seas  heave  darkly  in  their  tempest  shroud. 

And  everlasting  hills  are  heard  to  chant  aloud. 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 


CANTO  V. 


JL  OUNG  Morning  comes  again!  with  garments  blown 
Abroad  upon  the  wind;  and  flowrets  thrown 
In  garland  tresses  o'er  her  opening  breast 
With  diamonds  dropping  from  her  airy  crest. 
Young  Morning  comes  again!  with  laughing  eye, 
With  bustling  cherubs  thronging  up  the  sky; 
And  pulling  thro'  the  air  by  braided  flowers 
Sweet  nature's  wicker  work!  her  wild  wood  bowers! 
Young  Morning  comes  again!  in  floating  car 
Of  tangled  roses:  o'er  the  hill  of  war 
She  throws  her  mantle,  kindling  on  the  sight, 
With  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  own  rainbow-light: 
Of  woven  jasper — threaded  sapphire — gold: 
And  sunshine — pearls — embossed  upon  its  fold — 
And  thickening  gems:  a  diamond  flag  unrolled! 


88  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

The  sheathless  weapon  glimmers  on  the  sight: 
Pale  cheeks  and  sunken  eyes  once  more  are  bright— 
But  not  with  life,  0,  no! — their  souls  have  flown: 
Their  last  dread  trump  amid  the  fight  was  blown. 
Their  feathers  glance  again;  an  idle  red 
Burns  o'er  their  prostrate  forms  and  bloody  bed. 
Here,  wras  the  deadliest  strife!  this  youthful  group 
Are  the  last  remnants  of  a  martyred  troop. 
Here  their  young  banner  waved!  and  here — they  fell! 
There  lies  that  banner! — let  its  fragments  tell, 
Yet  grasped  in  life — if  'twas  defended  well. 
The  rich,  green  sward  is  bared  by  struggling  hoofs; 
And  all  along  the  field  are  seen  the  proofs 
Of  soldier-rivalry.     Opposing  plumes,  and  crests 
Of  snow  and  crimson,  are  the  silent  tests 
That  prove  where  soldiers  met— and  strove — and  died! 
In  pairs  they  lie — embracing — side  by  side. 
A  strong,  strong  death  was  theirs:  their  hard-clenched 

hands; 

Their  mingled  trappings,  and  their  hiltless  brands: — 
The  desperate  grasp — the  half  raised  form! — and  eye 
Yetlowering  with  the  threat  of  agony: 
The  bleeding  banner  and  the  dripping  crest: 
The  dying  war-horse,  with  his  heaving  chest, 
Yet  struggling  to  arise,  and  o'er  the  plain 
Blaze  forth  in  dimmed  caparisons  again — 
And  loosen  to  the  wind  his  crimson  steaming  mane! 

O,  there's  no  mockery  like  the  morning  light, 
Smiling  o'er  relicks  of  a  bloody  night: 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  89 

Like  a  red  lustre  on  a  barren  mount: 
Like  the  rich  moon-beam  o*er  a  silent  fount, 
Swimming  in  feverish  splendour,  while  it  tells, 
But  the  more  certain,  where  the  turf-home  swells — 
Where  Hope  is  stretched  in  death,  and  Desolation 
dwells. 

Upon  that  mountain  altar,  thick  are  laid, 
The  midnight  victims  to  the  Battle-shade: 
Slain  in  the  darkness,  by  an  unseen  hand— 
With  eye  half  closed — dead  hair— and  shivered  brand: 
In  solitude  they  lie! — with  no  friend  near: 
Not  stretched  in  soldier  pomp  upon  the  bier, 
With  the  high  casque— and  crimson  plume — and  sword: 
With  blow  of  trumpets— roll  of  drums — and  word 
Of  slow  command, — and  dragging  tramp  of  steeds — 
And  all  the  pageantry  the  dead  man  needs — 
The  banner  stretching  dark,  and  float  of  dusky  weeds. 

Hear  ye  that  sound?  'twould  make  the  stoutest  quaib 
It  is  the  mourning — lamentation — wail 
Of  outbreathed  hearts,  that  load  the  morning  air; 
Of  those  who  kneel  among  the  dead  in  prayer- 
Collecting  relicks — locks  of  bloody  hair. 
Who  thinks  of  battle  now!  The  stirring  sounds 
Spring  lightly  from  the  trumpet,  yet  who  bounds 
On  this  sad — still — and  melancholy  morn, 
As  he  was  wont  to  bound,  when  the  fresh  horn 
Came  dancing  on  the  winds;  and  pealed  to  heaven! 
In  gone-by  hours,  before  the  battle-even? 
12 


90  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

The  very  horses  move  with  halting  pace: 

No  more  they  heave  their  manes  with  fiery  grace — 

With  plunge— and  reach — and  step  that  leaves  no  trace: 

No  more  they  spurn  the  bit,  and  sudden  fling 

Their  light  hoofs  on  the  air!  The  bugles  sing; 

And  yet  the  meteor  mane,  and  rolling  eye 

Lighten  no  longer  at  their  minstrelsy. 

No  more  their  housings  blaze:  no  more  the  gold, 

Or  purple,  flashes  from  the  opening  fold: 

No  rich— wrought  stars  are  glittering  in  their  pride 

Of  changing  hues:  all — all!  is  crimson-dyed. 

They  move  with  slow — far  step:  they  hear  the  tread 

That  measures  out  the  tombing  of  the  dead: 

o 

The  cannon  speaks:   but  now,  no  longer  rolls 
In  heavy  thunders  to  the  answering  poles. 
But  bursting  suddenly,  it  calls,  and  flies — 
At  breathless  intervals  along  the  skies, — 
As  if  some  viewless  centinel  were  there, 
Whose  challenge  peals  at  midnight  thro'  the  air: 
Each  sullen  steed  goes  on — nor  heeds  its  roar: 
Nor  pauses  when  its  voice  is  heard  no  more: 
But  snuffs  the  tainted  breeze,  and  lifts  his  head — 
And  slowly  wheeling — with  a  cautious  tread — 
Shuns, — as  in  reverence — the  mighty  dead: 
Or  rearing  suddenly!  with  flashing  eye, 
Where  some  young  war-horse  lies — he  passes  by. 
T'>en  with  unequal  step  he  smites  the  ground, 
Utters  a  startling  neigh — and  gazes  round— 
And  wonders  that  he  hears  no  answering  sound* 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA.  91 

This!~while  his  rider  can  go  by  the  bier 
Of  slaughtered  men,  and  never  drop  a  tear. 
And  only— when  he  meets  a  comrade  there- 
Stretched  calmly  out— with  brow  and  bosom  bare,— 
And  stiffened  hand  uplifted  in  the  air,— 
With  lip  still  curled,— and  open,  glassy  eye, 
Fixed  on  the  pageant  that  is  passing  by;— 
And  only  then — in  decency  will  ride 
Less  stately  in  his  strength— less  lordly  in  his  pride. 

Now  shouts  the  trump  again!    The  muskets  ring! 
Drums  travel  loud!  and  merry  bugles  sing! 
And  once  mere,  in  the  breeze,  the  rainbow-banners 
swing! 

Such  sounds  are  wanted,  when  the  morning  red 
Comes  warm  and  richly  o'er  unburied  dead: 
The  brawling  drum  must  roll:  the  keen-toned  fife, 
Must  sting  the  sluggish  pulses  into  life; 
Or  all  that  had  survived,  would  kneel  in  prayer; 
And  pour  their  hearts  out  in  the  morning  air; 
And  consecrate  their  bloody  swords  to  Peace; 
And  call  for  mercy,  loud;  and  never  cease 
Their  supplications,  till  the  God  of  Heaven 
Had  offered  them  some  sign  that  murder  was  forgiven. 

Come,  Glory,  come!  Let's  chaunt  the  soldier's  dirge:* 
Step  from  thy  thrones,  and  from  thy  clouds  emerge! 
Bring  thy  black  cypress  clotted  in  the  shade: 
Of  weeping-willow  let  a  wreath  be  made 


92  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA, 

To  crown  the  warriour-brow,  that  lately  sought 

Thy  battle-laurel:  him  who  lately  fought 

Reddest  and  fiercest,  where  the  war-god  sung: 

Where  the  loud  death-sobs  came,  and  falchions  rung: 

Twine  him  a  heavy  garland!  steep  it  well; 

And  mutter  o'er  its  gloom  thy  darkest  spell; 

With  broken  heart-strings  be  it  twisted  round; 

Tread  it  in  wrath  upon  the  soaking  ground; 

And  where  the  stagnant  blood  lies  deepest,  there 

Complete  thy  curse — the  chaplet  of  despair! 

Call  back  his  spirit  from  the  Eternal  bar: 

Show  him  that  clotted  foliage — talk  of  war: 

Wake  thy  swift  bugle,  let  it  sing  away 

Freshly  and  clear,  like  clarion  of  the  day! 

Loosen  thy  banners  on  the  mountain  winds! 

Call  up  thy  thunders! — while  thy  hot  hand  binds, 

That  wreath  around  his  mad,  consuming  brain — 

Tell  him  'tis  his  reward! — will  he  complain 

Of  wasted  life — of  bloody  hand  arrayed 

In  sacrifice  for  thee? — when  blade  met  blade; 

And  man  met  man,  and  like  the  desert  beast, 

That  bleeds  and  battles  till  his  breath  has  ceased; 

Toiled  dark  u  pon  the  mount  to  spread  the  vulture's  feast, 

A  solemn  march  is  heard:  a  measured  tread: — 
Banners  are  furled  again— and  o'er  the  dead, 
The  crimson  pall,  by  martial  hands,  is  spread. 
A  band  on  foot  approach,  they  bear  a  form 
Like  the  rent  mountain  oak,  that  braves  the  storm, — 


BATTLE  OF  NIAGAUA.  ft* 

Heaves  its  young  branches  to  the  raging  skies- 
Receives  the  Thunderer's  bolt — and  prostrate  lies! 
Whence  is  that  band — and  whose  the  form  they  bear-* 
With  high — pale  brow,  and  darkly  clustered  hair? 
That  hair  is  wet — but  not  with  dews  of  night; 
Its  lifeless  length  was  loaded  in  the  fight. 
Disfigured — motionless — with  bosom  bare— 
And  arm— still  stretched  abroad!— he  slumbers  there. 
He  was  careering  in  the  hottest  fight; 
His  black  barb  leaping  in  his  stormy  might; 
His  banner — floating  loudly  on  the  ear, 
As  if  some  mighty  Bird  were  hovering  near: 
His  starry  troops  were  conquering  at  his  side; 
Their  plumes  were  blazing  in  their  fiercest  pride-*- 
When  suddenly — his  heart!— its  lordly  swell 
Was  gone  forever! — as  he  dimly  fell, 
His  hand  once  stretched  his  sabre  to  his  foes! 
His  form  dilated! — more  erect  he  rose! — 
His  dark  eye  flashed  once  more! — but  flashed  in  vain: 
His  wounded  charger  felt  the  loosened  rein: — 
Felt  the  strong  hand  that  grasped  his  bloody  mane — 
And  sprang  to  bear  him  off! — One  desperate  bound — 
One  gallant  neigh  he  gave! — and  on  the  ground 
Stretched  his  dark  limbs—triumphantly — and  died! 
On  the  wide  battle-field  in  warriour  pride; 
Far  from  the  noise  of  strife,  and  by  his  master's  side. 

Know  ye,  that  form — those  features — and  that  air? 
Have  ye  e'er  seen  that  thickly  clustered  hair? 


94  BATTLE  OF  NIAGARA. 

That! — was  the  brown-cheeked  youth,  with  eye  of  fire, 
"Who  rode  a  courser  like  the  winds.    His  sire 
Bows  proudly  o'er  his  corse.     His  bloody  bier 
"With  precious  dew  is  bathed: — the  cold  sad  tear— 
The  heart's  last  offering!  o'er  those  ruins  fall, 
That  lie  concealed  beneath  a  bleeding  pall: 
And  one  is  there,  whose  trembling  hands  are  prest 
Jn  desperate  calmness  on  her  swelling  breast: 
Whose  mute — pale  lip — whose  sadly  wandering  eye 
Speaks  more  than  sorrow — suffering — agony! — 
While  gazing  tearless  on  the  form  before  her; 
FATHER  OF  MERCIES!    Father!  Oh,  restore  herl 


OR 


TO   THE    READER. 

THIS  story  is  not  a  fiction:  the  principal  circumstances  stand 
on  record.  On  the  3d  of  September,  1806,  about  sunset, 
the  Spitzberg1,  a  part  of  mount  Rosburg,  in  the  canton  of 
Schweitz,  Switzerland,  slid  from  its  base;  and  from  a  height 
of  more  than  two  thousand  feet,  overwhelmed  three  whole 
villages,  and  upwards  of  fifteen  hundred  peasants;  leaving  the 
rocks  all  naked  in  its  path,  and  transforming  an  extensive  valley 
into  a  hill.  Among  the  villages  destroyed  was  GOLDAU,  the  most 
romantick  and  beautiful  of  the  three.  I  knew  a  young  man 
abroad,  who  lost  every  friend  he  had  on  earth  in  that  hour  of 
calamity.  He  had  been  a  soldier,  and  was  subject  to  occasional 
derangement;  was  a  poet,  gifted  with  a  magnificent  imagination; 
and  played  the  harp  with  a  masterly  hand:  still  farther— for  I  am 
willing  to  confess  how  little  I  am  indebted  to  fancy  for  any  inter 
est,  whatever,  that  may  be  excited  by  these  simple  verses — the 
most  affecting  circumstance  is  a  fact  faithfully  related:  I  have 
myself  seen  him — at  sunset — on  the  summit  of  a  high  cliff — 
pouring  forth  his  wild  musick,  accompanied  by  his  thrilling 
voice,  until  I  have  felt  a  degree  of  enthusiasm,  probably  more 
animating  and  exalting  than  I  shall  ever  again  experience. 

THE  AUTHOR. 
IS 


GOLBAU, 


OR  THE  MANIAC  HARPER. 


U  PON  a  tranquil — glorious  night, 
When  all  the  western  heaven  was  bright; 
When,  thronging  down  the  far  blue  dome, 
The  sun  in  rolling  clouds  went  home: 
There  wandered  to  a  goat-herd's  cot 
A  youth — who  sought  to  be  forgot: 
Who  many  a  long  and  weary  year 
Had  breathed  his  prayer  and  shed  his  tear. 
Beneath  his  look  of  cloud  was  seen, 
Somewhat,  that  told  where  fire  had  been; 
For  yet,  a  sorrowing  beam  was  there: 
A  beam — in  mockery  o  f  despair: 
A  beam  that  gave  enough  of  light 
To  show  his  soul  had  set  in  night. 


1.00  GOLD  At. 

His  step  was  slow — his  form  was  bowed: 
But  jet  his  minstrel-air  was  proud: 
Upon  the  mountain's  height  he  stood, 
And  looked  abroad  o'er  wave  and  wood 
Yet  glowing  with  the  blush  of  even 
And  answering  to  the  hues  of  heaven, 

With  such  a  melancholy  grace, 
He  seemed  as  thus  he  stood  alone, 
Like  some  young  Prince  upon  his  throne— 

The  genius  of  the  lofty  place! 

He  wore  high  plumes — a  glittering  vest— 
And  to  his  half  uncovered  breast, 
An  antique  harp  was  strongly  prest: 
And,  ever  and  anon,  its  strings 
Gave  musick  to  his  wanderings: 
While  he  would  pause  to  see  unrolled, 
O'er  heaven's  blue  arch,  the  crimson  fold — 
And  purple  plumes  and  wings  of  fire — 
And  visions — till  his  trembling  lyre 
Would  shake  a  distant,  thrilling  note, 
Like  some  sweet  pipe  in  heaven  afloat; 
And  then  as  calmly  die  away 
As  sunset  hues  in  fading  day — 
As  rose-tints  on  the  quiet  stream 
Awakened  by  a  passing  beam: 
As  flashing  wings  that  flit  in  play 
Around  the  couch  of  infant  day: 
As  songs  that  Evening  hears,  when  all 
Are  listening  to  the  quiet  fall 


GOLDAU.  101 

Of  airy  melodies,  that  come, 
From  heaven,  in  one  sweet  murmuring  hum. 
And  he  would  pause  and  o'er  it  bend, 
As  if  it  were  his  only  friend. 

And  he  would  send  it  trembling  round — 
With  touch— so  magical  and  free — 
So  full  of  sweet  simplicity— 
And  tenderness — and  extacy — 

It  seemed  indeed  no  earthly  sound. 

And  those  who  heard  him  as  he  leant 
Upon  its  lonely  wires,  and  sent 
His  agitated  voice  away, 
In  feeling's  broken   roundelay — 
Would  wonder — weep — and  hold  their  breath 
As  if  they  heard  the  hymn  of  death: 
And  when  the  spell  was  broken — gone— 
Its  sad  enchantment  all   withdrawn — 
Would  smile  to  see  the  trembling  tear 
On  other  downcast  lids  appear — 
Nor  e'er  suspect  themselves  had  given 
A  tribute  to  these  sounds  of  heaven! 
And  all  who  heard  him  then,  believed 
That  he  had  loved — and  been  deceived: 
Or  seen  the  stooping  willow  wave 
Its  tresses  o'er  a  loved  one's  grave: 

For  such  his  melancholy  song, 
That  every  listener's  heart  was  weeping 
Like  youthful  lovers,  when  they're  sleeping 

In  sorrows  that  they  would  prolong. 


GOLDAU. 

But  those  who  heard  the  voice  he  sent 

When  battle  was  his  theme: 
Who  saw  his  gorgeous  vestment  rent — 
His  quenchless  eye — the  lights  that  went 
Beneath  his  brow  of  gathered  might, 
Like  meteors  that  go  forth  at  night, 

In  one  continual  stream! 
And  those  who  heard  his  ardent  cry, 
And  all  his  harp-strings  pealing  high: 
Who  saw  his  stern,  uplifted  brow — 
His  sweeping  arm — his  vestment  flow — 
The  heaving  of  his  youthful  chest, 
Beneath  that  mailed  and  glittering  vest — 
Who  marked  the  martial  belt  that  bound 
His  youthful  form  so  closely  round — 
His  attitude — so  proud  and  high — 
With  look  uplifted  to  the  sky— 
And  outstretched  arm,  and  waving  hand, 
As  if  it  waved  a  conquering  brand — 
And  high  plumed  bonnet  nodding  low 

Whene'er  he  trod,  as  if  it  gave 
To  some  young  supplicating  foe, 

A  rescue  o'er  an  opening  grave! — 
Yes!  those  who  saw  all  this,  would  feel 
Enthusiasm  o'er  them  steal 
So  unexpectedly, — they  stood, 
Like  men,  who,  mid  a  solitude, 

Have  heard  a  sudden  trumpet-peal! 


GOLDAU.  103 

Their  hearts  would  swell  and  they  would  rise — 
And  stand  erect  with  flashing  eyes — 
And  toss  their  arms  unconsciously — 
And  join  the  shout  of  victory! 
And  when  the  summons  died  away 
Like  battle  at  the  close  of  day: 
Would  feel—as  they  had  been  in  fight, 
And  wearied  with  their  deeds  f>f  might: 
Would  stand  entranced — or  start,  and  seem 
As  bursting  from  a  stormy  dream: 
Or  gaze  with  troubled  air  around. 
And  wonder  whence  that  trumpet  sound! 
And  whither  it  had  flown! — or  hear 
The  tumult  yet — distinct  and  clear — 
Now  pealing  far — now  ringing  near, 
And  bursting  on  the  startled  ear! 
As  if  a  host  had  stooped  from  heaven 

Upon  the  winds  that  blow  at  night; 
And  all  their  harps  and  trumps  had  given 

A  farewell  to  departing  light! 

And  then,  the  glitter  of  each  eye, 
That  kindled  at  his  minstrelsy — 
That  lightened,  when  the  echoing  blast 
Far  o'er  the  hills  in  triumph  past; 
That  varied  with  the  varying  note 
Upon  the  eddying  air  afloat — 
Would  with  that  varying  note  decay 
And  melt  so  peacefully  away, 
That  each  who  saw  his  neighbour's  cheek 
The  tumult  of  his  soul  bespeak — 


104  GOLDAU. 

And  saw  the  maddening  lustre  die 
There  reddening  like  an  angry  sky — 
And  saw  each  upright  youthful  form 
Awake  like  genius  of  the  storm, 
With  lifted  brow  and  threatening  air, 
While  pealed  the  battle  anthem  there — 
And  saw  it  as  that  anthem  died 
Lose  all  its  stateliness  and  pride; 
With  yielding  port  and  fading  eye — 
And  heard  his  furious  shouting  die: — 
Would  wonder  that  himself  bad  been 
So  undisturbed! — and  so  serene! 
And  this  would  be — while  yet  he  stood 
In  that  delicious  solitude 
When  youthful  hearts  feel  all  alone — 

Alone  amid  the  world! 
When  Phrensy  leaves  her  radiant  throne, 
And  all  her  singing  troops  have  flown: 

And  all  their  wings  are  furled! 

And  this  would  be  while  yet  the  fire 
Enkindled  by  that  wonderous  lyre, 
WTas  quivering  on  his  downcast  lash, 
Just  like  the  dying  tempest-flash! 
And  those  who  felt  their  bosoms  swell 
Beneath  the  working  of  that  spell: 
Who  felt  that  young  enchanter's  might, 
Whose  incantations  woke  the  fight, 
And  taught  to  peasant-hearts  the  feeling 
That  mounts  to  hear  the  trumpet  pealing, 


GOLDAU. 

Then — deemed  the  youthful  minstrel  there 

Familiar  with  the  strife  had  been: 
And  that  his  sad,  appealing  air — 
His  darkened  brow-  his  bosom  bare — 
His  haughty  port  of  calm  despair- 
Enthusiasm — genius  were— 
And  never  but  in  warriours  seen! 

But  those  who  knew  him,  knew  full  well 
That  something  terrible  once  fell 
Upon  his  heart,  and  frofce  the  source 
Whence  comes  enthusiasm's  force- 
Something  of  icy  touch  that  chills: 

The  heart-drops  of  our  youthful  years: 
Something  of  withering  strength  that  kills 

The  flowers,  that  Genius  wets  with  tears — 
Fetters  the  fountain  in  its  flow: 
Mildews  the  blossom  in  its  blow: 
And  breathes  o'er  fancy's  budding  wreath 
The  clotting  damps  of  early  death: 
That  spreads  before  the  opening  light— 
The  sunshine  of  the  heart! — 
A  cloud  that  tells  of  coming  night, 
And  chills  the  warblers  in  their  flight, 
That  twinkling  gaily  to  the  skies, 
With  piping  throats  and  diamond  eyes, 
In  unfledged  strength  depart. 

Something — but  what  was  never  known: 
Something  had  pressed  his  pulses  down: 
14 


106  GOLDAU. 

Blasted  the  verdure  of  his  spring: 
Shorn  the  gay  plumage  of  his  wing: 
Silenced  his  harp,  and  stilled  his  lyre: 
Heaped  snow  upon  his  bosom's  fire — 
And  caught  away  the  wreath  of  flame 
That  hovered  o'er  his  youthful  name. 
Obscured  his  sun — and  wrapped  the  throne 
Where  Glory  in  her  jewels  shone, — 

Forever  from  his  searching  gaze: 
And,  on  his  brain,  in  lightning  traced 

The  suffering  of  his  youthful  days: 
Where  Madness  had  with  clouds  erased 
The  characters,  that  Rapture  placed 

Upon  his  heart  and  soul  in  blaze! 

>Tis  true,  that  there  were  those  who  saw — 
And  whispered  what  they  said  in  awe — 
That  nought  beneath  the  skies  but  guilt; 
Nought  but  the  cry  of  blood  that's  spilt; — 
Could  so  unman  a  form  so  young — 
A  heart  so  high  and  firmly  strung: 
But  such — whene'er  they  saw  his  eye 
Uplifted  to  the  dark-blue  sky 

In  such   a  generous  confidence — 
When  night  was  forth — would  feel  a  tear— 
And  in  their  virtue  would  appear — 

More  fearful  of  Omnipotence! 

His  faded  plumes,  and  vestment  torn 
Were  less  like  those  by  minstrels  worn, 


GOLDAU. 

Than  like  the  garb  of  youthful  knight: 
Caparisoned  for  glorious  fight; 
Equipped  beneath  his  lady's  eye 
To  couch  his  lance  for  chivalry: — 
To  charge  in  tournament  or  strife— 
For  wreath  or  scarf— for  death,  or  life. — 
And  once,  'twas  said,  his  full,  black  eye, 
When  a  young  war-horse  bounded  by — 
Awoke  at  once! — and  lightnings  keen, 
As  on  the  falchion's  point  are  seen — 
Flashed  forth!— then  vanished  from  the  sight 

And  darkened  into  tears! 
And  dimly  o'er  his  brow  there  past 
A  shade  of  memory— 'twas  the  last — 

And  first  for  many  years. 

Yes — something  once  had  touched  his  brain 

o 

No  matter — he  would  ne'er  complain — 
Had  misery  left  him  with  the  power 
To  tell  the  suffering  of  that  hour: — 
But — as  it  was,  the  fearful  cause 
Of  all  the  scenes  that  madness  draws — 
That  curse  of  Genius! — all  that  awes! — 
That  reft  his  heart — and  bowed  his  pride, 
To  him  was  known — to  none  beside: 
And  all  he  knew,  was  but  a  dream 
Of  sleepless  agony: — the  beam, 
That  shone  upon  his  maniac  way. 
Was  but  the  melancholy  ray, 


108  GOLDAU. 

That  plays  o'er  churchyards,  when  the  Night 

Reveals  her  phantoms  to  the  sight: 

'Twas  but  the  lurid*  wandering  beam: — 

The  troubled  lightning  of  a  stream: 

Or  stricken  armour's  hasty  gleam; 

'Twas  but  the  light  that  meteors  shed; 

That  faintly  watches  o'er  the  bed, 

Where  Desolation  guards  the  dead: 

The  splendours  of  the  storm,  that  show 

Temples  and  monuments  laid  low; 

And  altars  shattered  by  that  God 

Whose  thunders  roll  but  once — whose  nod 

But  once  in  wrath,  is  ever  given — 
When  temples  fall — and  spires  are  strown; 
And  Empire  totters  from  her  throne; 

And  prostrate  Idols  bow  to  heaven! 

Such  is  the  awful  light  that  plays 
Around  his  steps!  the  meteor  blaze 
That  goes  before  Destruction's  path! 
That  follows  the  Destroyer's  wrath, 
When  o'er  the  blessed  earth  are  seen, 
Their  footsteps  in  the  blasted  green: 
And  pyramids  and  statues  thrown 
In  ruin  o'er  the  earth — o'ergrown 
With  savage  garlands,-^living  wreaths, 
Of  creeping  things,— while  poison  breathes 
From  every  chaplet — every  crown — 
And  every  wonder  that  is  down— 


GOLDAU. 

As  if  in  mockery  of  their  power— 

The  dread  immortals  of  an  hour: 

As  in  derision  of  their  strength 

Thus  prostrate — rent — and  strown  at  length. 

Such  is  that  minstrel's  memory  yet; 

The  very  page  he  should  forget, 

Of  all  the  volume  of  his  days, 

Is  ever  opened  in  its  blaze! 

And  all  the  rest  is  from  his  sight 

Enveloped  in  eternal  night! 

The  ruins  of  his  hopes  are  seen, 

And  ruins  only! — all  the  rest — 
That  in  their  days  of  light  have  been, 

Are  darkly  shrouded  in  his  breast. 

His  sufferings,  and  his  home  unknown; 
A  madman — and  a  minstrel — thrown 
Upon  the  barren  mountain,  goes 
Unharmed,  amid  his  nature's  foes: 
Protected  by  the  peasants  prayer, 
He  wanders  thro*  the  dark  woods,  where 
Abides  the  she-wolf  in  her  lair: 
Such  prayers  are  his — are  his  forever! 
And  ne'er  will  be  refused — 0,  never! 
For  never  yet,  there  shone  the  eye, 
Could  let  him  pass  unheeded  by; 
And  every  heart — and  every  shed, 
Gave  welcome  to  that  maniac's  tread: 
And  peasant-babes  would  run  to  cheer 
His  footsteps,  as  he  wandered  near: 


GOLDAtf. 

And  every  sunny  infant  eye,     • 
Grew  sunnier  as  his  step  came  nigh: 
And  when  he  went  at  night  alone, 
Where  mighty  oaks  in  fragments  strown, 
Proclaimed  the  revels  of  the  storm — 
He  went  in  safety:  o'er  his  form 
There  hung  a  mute,  but  strong  appeal, 
That  those,  who  rend  the  clouds,  might  feel: 
Unharmed,  upon  the  cliff  he'd  stand, 
And  see  the  Thunderer  stretch  his  wand, 

And  hear  his  chariots  roll: 
And  clap  his  hands— and  shout  for  joy! — 
Thus  would  that  glorious  minstrel-boy: 

When  lightnings  wrapped  the  pole! 
And  he  would  toss  his  arms  on  high, 

In  greeting  as  the  arrows  flew: 
And  bare  his  bosom  to  the  sky; 
And  stand  with  an  intrepid  eye, 
And  gaze  upon  the  clouds  that  past, 
Uprolling  o'er  the  mountain  blast, 

And  wonder  at  their  depth  of  blue: — 
Then — wildly  toss  his  arms  again, 
As  if  he  saw  the  rolling  main; 

And  heard  some  ocean-chant  anew: 
As  if  upon  each  passing  cloud, 
He  saw  the  Tempest  harping  loud 

Amid  her  fiery-bannered  crew. 

The  tempting  precipice  was  hidden; 
The  angels  of  the  storm  forbidden 


GOLDAU. 

To  strive  upon  his  wasting  frame — 

The  powers  of  air!  enrobed  in  flame — 

Whose  thrones  are  everlasting  hills, 

Whose  army,  all  creation,  fills: 

Who  ride  upon  the  roaring  main; 

And  listen  to  to  battle  strain; 

The  thunders  of  the  deep,  and  song 

Of  trumpets  busting  all  along; 

When  streamers  flash,  and  banners  blaze, 

And  tall  plumes  bow,  and  lightning  strays 

O'er  Ocean's  dull-blue  billows, 
And  far  amid  the  clouds  are  seen, 
Young  angels  hands,  that  twine  the  green 
Of  laurels,  dripping  gallant  blood, 
With  sea-weed  from  the  stormy  flood, 

And  thunder  blasted  willows. 

The  sunset  was  his  favourite  hour: 
His  eye  would  light — his  form  would  tower; 
And  kindle  at  departing  day, 
As  if  its  last,  and  loveliest  ray 
Would  win  his  very  soul  away; 
And  there  were  those,  who,  when  he  stood, 
Sublime  in  airy  solitude, 
Upon  his  mountain's  topmost  height, 
With  arms  outstretched,  to  meet  the  light — 
With  form  bowed  down,  as  if  it  were 
In  worship  to  the  fiery  air; 
Who— had  he  been  from  eastern  climes. 
From  sunnier  hills— in  earlier  times— 


1U 


112  OOLDAU. 

When  thus  be  bowed  him  to  the  sky — 
Had  charged  him  with  idolatry: 

For  when  he  bowed,  he  bowed  in  truth: 
His  adoration  was  the  thought 
And  worship,  that  from  heaven  is  caught 

When  genius  blossoms  in  its  youth. 

'Twas  feeling  all,  and  generous  love — 

The  reaching  of  the  soul  above: — 

The  intellectual  homage  pure, 

That  is  sincere,  and  will  endure: 

It  was  the  offering  of  the  heart, 

The  soul — and  pulse — and  every  part 

That's  noble  in  our  frames,  or  given 

To  throb  for  suns,  or  stars,  or  heaven: 

The  spirit  that  is  made  of  flame, 

Forever  mounting  whence  it  came: 

The  pulse  that  counts  the  march  of  time, 

Impatient  for  the  call  sublime, 

When  it  may  spring  abroad  and  climb: 

The  heart,  that  by  itself  is  nurst, 

And  heaves,  and  swells,  till  it  hath  burst: 

That  never  yields — and  ne'er  complains— 

And  dies — but  to  conceal  its  pains, 

And  the  bright  flashing  glorious  eye 

Forever  open  on  the  sky, — 
As  if  in  that  stupendous  swell, 
He  sought  a  spot,  where  he  might  dwell, 

And  pant  for  immortality. 


GOLDAU. 

That  minstrel  watched  when  others  slept, 
But  when  the  day-light  came — he  wept 
For  tho*  a  maniac,  he  could  see 
That  sunshine  sports  with  misery: 
He  dwelt  in  caverns — and  alone — 
Held  no  communion,  but  with  one: 
And  that  was  but  a  peasant's  child, 
A  young  enthusiast; — a  wild 
And  melancholy  girl,  whose  heart 
Was  subject  to  his  wonderous  art — 
She  was  a  sad  and  lonely  one, 
And  she  too  loved  the  evening  sun: 
The  twilight  mantle  when  its  blue 
Is  dropped  with  light,  and  wet  with  dew: 
When  watery  melodies  find  birth, 
Arid  heaven  itself  seems  nearer  earth: 
She  never  led  the  mountain  race; 
She  never  joined  the  insect  chase; 
Or  left  her  solitary  place, 
To  join  the  dance,  or  trill  the  song: 
Or  o'er  the  cliffs,  to  bound  along; 
But  all  alone — in  silence,  where 
The  rocky  cliff  stood  cloudless — bare — 
With  folded  arms  and  loosened  hair — 
And  robe  abroad  upon  the  air — 
And  turbaned  wreath  and  streaming  feather, 
Would  stand  for  hours  and  hours  together! 
And  listen  to  the  song  that  came 

Tumultuous  from  a  neighbouring  height, 
And  watch  that  minstrel-boy  in  flame, 

While  harping  to  the  god  of  light. 
15 


114  GOLDAU. 

That  wild  one  had  a  feeling  heart! 
And  when  the  minstrel  would  depart, 
To  wander  o'er  the  hills,  and  stray 
Upon  the  beetling  cliff—his  way, 
By  morn  and  noon,  in  sun  and  shade, 
Was  lighted  by  that  dark  eyed  maid: 
And  when  he  trod  a  dangerous  height, 
Her  shout  would  lead  the  wanderer  right: 
And  he  would  then  submissive  turn, 

And  smile  as  if  he  felt  her  care: 
Afid,  when  they  met,  his  cheek  would  burn, 

As  if  he  knew  what  led  her  there. 

No  other  voice  could  stay  his  course: 
Her's  was?  the  only  earthly  force 
To  which  he  yielded,  when  he  went 
in  worship  towards  the  firmament. 
She  saw  beneath  that  cloudy  air 
The  heart  of  flame  imprisoned  there: 
For  every  glance  that  left  his  eye 
When  pealed  his  bursting  minstrelsy; 
And  every  shout  he  sent  away, 
When  woke  his   stormy  battle-lay; 
And  every  sweeping  of  his  hand, 
Showed  one  accustomed  to  command: 
And  then — the  sounds  he  always  chose, 
In  tempest  or  in  tears,  were  those 
That  only  generous  hearts  can  feel 


GOLDAU. 

And  only  generous  hearts  conceive: 
For  they  were  still  the  challenge  peal — 
The  charge  that  makes  the  young  heart  reel, 

Or  lordly  spirits  stoop,  and  grieve. 

These  were  his  everlasting  themes: 
And  these  the  echo  of  his  dreams: — 
The  neigh  of  steeds,  the  bugle  cry 
Of  battle  or  of  victory: 
The  roar  of  wind — and  rusli  of  water: 
The  blaze  of  heaven,  cry  of  slaughter:-— 
The  thunders  of  the  rolling  deep 
Whose  monarchs  starting  from  their  sleep, 
Outstretch  their  sceptres  o'er  the  wave 
And  call  their  spirits  from  the  grave: 
When  every  billow  starts  to  life, 
Contending  in  the  foamy  strife — 
For  diadem  of  dripping  green, 
Entwined  by  Ocean's  stormy  queen. 
These  were  for  aye,  his  chosen  themes 
But  he  would  sing  full  oft,  it  seems, 
With  tenderer  touch,  and  tenderer  note 
Such  airs  as  o'er  the  waters  float — 
When  symphonies  of  evening  rise 
In  whispers  to  the  listening  skies— 
And  swell  and  die  so  soft  away 
We  think  some  minstrel  of  the  day 
Is  piping  on  its  airy  way: 
Or  some  sweet  songstress  of  the  night 
Waves  musick  from  her  wings  in  flight: 


116  GOLDAU. 

A  lulling — faint — uncertain  song— 
That  but  to  spirits  can  belong: 
To  happy  spirits  too — and  none 
But  those,  who  in  the  setting  sun. 
Expand  their  thin  bright  wings,  and  darting, 
Spin  musick  to  their  god  in  parting: 
Who  has  not  heard  these  quiet  airs 
Come  like  the  sigh  of  heaven  that  bears, 
A  soothing  to  his  toiling  cares: 
As  if  some  murmuring  angel  guest 
Within  his  void  and  echoing  breast 
Were  fanning  all  his  thoughts  to  rest? 
Who  has  not  felt  when  sounds  like  these, 
Like  prayers  of  lovers  on  the  breeze — 
Came  warm  and  fragrant  by  her  cheek 
Oh,  more  than  mortal  e'er  way  speak! 
As  if  unto  her  heart  she'd  caught 
Some  instrument  that  to  her  thought, 
Gave  answering  melody  and  song, 
In  murmurings  like  an  airy  tongue: 
And  echoing  in  its  insect-din, 
To  every  pulse  and  hope  within, 

Had  set  her  thoughts  to  fairy  numbers! 
Or  if  she  ne'er  has  fancied  this 
This  doubtful  and  bewildering  bliss — 
Has  she  not  dropped  the  lingering  tear 
And  fancied  that  some  one  was  near 
Invisible  indeed,  but  dear — 

The  guardian  of  her  evening  slumbers! 


GOLDAU. 

Such  were  the  sotmds  that  ye  would  hear 
When  that  strange  boy  would  call  the  tear: 
A  deep  and  low  complaining  tone — 
Like  lover's  vows  when,  all  alone, 
Upon  some  budding  green  he  kneels, 
And  listens  to  the  sound  that  steals 
From  some  fresh  woodbined  lattice  near, 
When  all  that  to  his  soul  is  dear, 
Is  at  her  grateful  vesper  hymn — 
When  bright  eyes  in  their  prayers  grow  dim: 
Sounds  faintly  uttered,— half  suppressed — 
Like  fountains  whispering  to  the  blest:— 
Or  the  subduing  smothered  tones 
That  sob  upon  the  air  like  groans, 
Of  those  who  broken  hearted  stand 
Before  some  youthful — gallant  friend: 
Of  those  who  kneel  and  hold  their  breath 
By  loved  ones  touched  with  sudden  death: 
Or  sounds  like  chantings  from  a  tomb, 
When  spirits  sit  amid  the  gloom 

And  melancholy  garlands  weave; 
And  twine  the  drooping  lilly  wreath — 
And  withered  wildflowers  from  the  heath, 
To  crown  the  maiden  brow,  that  lies 
Unkissed  by  Nature's  mysteries: 
To  sprinkle  o'er  a  virgin's  bed 
The  blossoms  that  untimely  shed — 

Have  budded — flourished  to  deceive. 


GOLDAU. 

That  girl  with  ripe  dark  hair,  was  wild 
As  Nature's  youngest,  freest  child: 
As  artless — generous — and  sincere— 
As  blushes  when  they  first  appear — 
Or  Rapture's  unexpected  tear: 
Her's  was  the  sudden  crimson  flush 
And  her's  the  rich  spontaneous  gush: 
Of  hearts  when  first  in  youth  they're  prest 
And  can't  conceal  that  they  are  blest: 
Her  downcast  eye,  and  pale  smooth  brow: 
The  heaving  of  her  breast  of  snow: — 
The  murmuring  of  her  voice — and  tread 
That  faultered  in  its  youthful  dread: — 
Would  ever  to  the  eye  reveal, 
What  all  but  mountain  nymphs  conceal: 
And  she,  before  that  boy,  would  stand 
With  lifted  brow  and  outstretched  hand- 
As  if  she  felt  a  holy  awe;-— 
And  all  her  heart  was  in  her  eyes, 
And  all  her  soul  would  seem  to  rise- 
While  thus  she  stood  for  hours  and  gazed 
Upon  that  minstrel  boy— amazed 
At  all  she  heard  and  all  she  saw. 

She  knew  the  dreadful  reason  why 
He  dwelt  upon  the  sunset  sky; 
For  once  as  they  together  stood 
Above  the  torrent  and  the  wood; 
In  breathless— sunny  solitude— 


GOLDAU. 

To  see  the  ruddy  clouds  of  even 

Go  blushing  o'er  the  vault  of  heaven: 

The  richest — warmest — loveliest  scene 

That  had  for  many  an  autumn  been: — 

There  came  a  sullen  labouring  sound, 

As  if  an  earthquake  rose  around: 

The  minstrel  uttered  one  low  cry 

Of  sudden — thrilling  agony — 

And  clasped  his  hands  with  look  of  fire — 

And  threw  away  his  antique  lyre — 

And  caught  the  maiden  to  his  heart, 

And  bore  her  down  the  hill! 
Oh,  who  may  now  the  strength  impart 

To  check  that  madman's  will! 

Where  is  the  arrow  or  the  bow: — 
The  Thunderer's  bolt— to  lay  him  low, 

Sent  forth  by  heaven  in  wrath! 
The  lightning  shaft,  that  fiercely  thrown, 
Hath  brought  the  mountain  spoiler  down, 

In  ruins  o'er  his  path! 

Have  mercy  heaven! — his  desperate  course, 
Is  like  the  stormy  torrent's  force, 
When  forth  from  some  high,  cloudy  steep, 
In  foaming  light  'tis  seen  to  leap: — 

Now  bursting  on  the  eye! 
Now  flashing  darkly  on  its  way — 
And  flinging  now,  its  fiery  spray 

lu  rainbows  to  the  sky! 


120  GOLDAXJ. 

Thus— thus  the  ravisher  went  forth; 
Like  meteors  o'er  the  doudy  north: 
Thus — thus  the  desperate  boy  went  down, 
In  splendour  o'er  the  mountain's  brown: 
His  vestment  streaming  far  behind, 
And  glittering  in  the  rushing  wind: 
His  dancing  .plumage  tipped  with  light, 
Like  eaglets  in  their  loftiest  flight, — 
As  now  he  darted  on  the  sight, 

And  met  the  sun's  last  ray: — 
Now  hidden  in  the  forest  shade — 
Emerging  now — and  now  betrayed 
By  plumes  that  in  the  sunset  played; 

And  robe  that  seemed  to  blaze! 

But  once  she  caught  his  eye  of  flame; 
But  then! — 0,  how  distracting  came 
Her  self-reproach,  for  all  that  led 
Her  heart  to  watch  a  madman's  tread! 
Still— still  he  bounds  from  cliff1  to  cliff, 
Like  some  light  vaulting,  airy  skiff— 
Upon  the  stormy  billows  tost, 
When  all  but  hope  and  faith  are  lost: 
Still— still  he  plunges  on  his  course; 
Still  straining  on  with  maniac  force — 
From  rock  to  rock,  as  if  he  were 
Some  spirit  sporting  on  the  air: 
Unconscious  of  the  dying  maid, 
That  on  his  naked  breast  is  laid— 


GOLDAU.  121 

Her  hair  flows  loose — her  dark  eyes  close, 
Fled  is  the  faintly  breathing  rose, 
That  lately  tinged  her  cheek: 

Sudden  his  dread  descent  is  staid- 
One  bound! — his  lifeless  charge  is  laid 
Upon  a  bank,  and  he  is  near, 
Half  kneeling  in  his  maniac  fear: 
And  now  she  moves! — her  head  she  raises-— 
She  starts,  and  round  in  terrour  gazes— 
With  wild  half-uttered  shriek — 
For  lo!  before  her  bows  a  form, 
Like  some  young  genius  of  the  storm — 
And  while  she  gazes  on  his  eye, 
Uplifted  in  idolatry, 
She  hears  a  stranger  speak! 

Gone  is  the  madman's  savage  air — 
His  pale  denouncing  look  is  gone — 

His  port  of  sullen,  calm  despair — 
And  gone,  indeed,  the  madman's  tone! 

His  cheek  burns  fresh — his  eye  is  bright, 

And  all  his  soul  breaks  forth  in  light! 

His  steps  is  buoyant,  and  his  hair 

Is  lightly  lifted  by  the  air; 

And  o'er  his  reddening  cheek,  and  eye, 

Upraised  in  feverish  extacy, 
16 


122  GOLDAU. 

Is  blown  so  carelessly,  he  seems 
Some  youthful  spirit  sent  from  high, 
Clad  in  the  glories  of  the  sky — 
With  locks  of  living  shade,  that  flow 
About  a  brow  of  driven  snow; 
Or  like  the  forms  that  pass  at  night, 
Arrayed  in  blushing  robes  of  light, 

In  Fancy's  sunniest  dreams. 

And  but  that  still  his  well-known  tears, 
And  faded  vestment  quelled  her  fears, 
She  had  believed  the  form  that  knelt, 
Whose  maniac  pressure  yet  she  felt, 
Was  not  the  minstrel  boy  that  went, 
In  worship  to  the  firmament: 
She  wondered — wept — and  breathed  one  prayer- 
Then  felt  in  more  than  safety  there: 
'Ellen!' he  faintly  said,  and  smiled, 

As  prostrate  at  her  feet  he  knelt — 
'Ellen!' — again  his  eye  looked  wild — 

Again  he  rose — as  if  he  felt, 
And  would  assuage,  some  sudden  pain, 
That  darted  through  his  rocking  brain: 
He  paused — and  o'er  his  throbbing  brow— 
His  hand  went  doubtfully,  and  slow — 
Indignant  brushed  a  falling  tear, 
And  saw  that  dark-eyed  girl  appear, 
In  awful  loveliness,  and  youth 
Enthusiasm — tears — and  truth: — 


GOLDAU.  123 

And  then  was  bent  that  maniac's  pride, 
His  arms  dropped  lifeless  at  his  side — 
In  Nature's  own  supremacy — 

And  Youth's  tumultuous  feeling — 
Already  in  his  extacy, 

The  maniac  boy  was  kneeling: 
When  once  again — a  lightning  pain — 
Went  flashing  through  his  clouded  brain, 

Wliere  Reason  was  revealing: 

It  went,  and  then  a  deeper  night 
Succeeded  to  its  blazing  flight, 
The  maniac  sprung  erect  from  earth, 

And  tossed  his  arms  abroad  in  air: 
Like  some  young  spirit,  at  its  birth — 

Some  nursling  of  the  fiend  Despair: 
Uttered  one  thrilling,  dreadful  cry, 
And  darted  towards  the  darkening  sky 

One  fierce  reproachful  look; 
Gathered  his  mantle  round  his  form, 
And  then,  like  those  who  rend  the  storm, 

His  upward  course  he  took. 

The  strife  was  o'er! — he  was  again 
Therminstrel-boy,  with  maniac  brain: 
The  strife  was  o'er! — the  madman's  air 
Returned  forever — and  Despair 
Hath  hung  her  cloud  forever  there! 


124  GOLDAU. 

Again  he  climbs  the  mountain's  height: 
Again  he  hails  departing  light: 
Again  his  soul  is  forth  in  strength: 
Again  his  vestment  flows  at  length; 
Again  the  mountain-echoes  ring: 
Again  his  harp  is  wandering: 
Again  his  chords  are  wildly  strung— 
And  these  the  measures  that  he  sung! 

THE  MINSTREL'S  SONG. 

Ye  who  would  hear  a  mournful  song, 
Such  as  the  desert  bird  may  sing, 
When  sailing  on  her  languid  wing 
By  sunny  cliffs  and  lifeless  woods — 
And  silent  blooming  solitudes — 
And  watery  worlds — and  cloudless  hills- 
Unmurmuring  founts  and  sleeping  rills- 
She  hears  on  high  the  distant  note, 
Of  some  sweet  airy  tune  afloat — 

That  to  the  birds  of  heaven  belongJ 

Ye  who  have  heard  in  the  still  of  the  night, 
When  the  soul  was  abroad  in  her  uppermost  flight, 

The  whispering  of  trumpets  and  harps  in  the  air. 
Who  have  heard,  when  the  rest  of  the  world  were  asleep, 
As  ye  sat  all  alone  o'er  the  measureless  deep, 

The  spirits  of  earth  and  of  heaven  at  prayer! 


GOLDATT.  125 

When  the  stars  of  the  air,  and  the  stars  of  the  water, 
Were  peaceful  and  bright  as  the  innocent  beam 
That  plays  o'er  the  lid  in  its  happiest  dream: 
When  the  song  of  the  wind  as  it  feebly  arose; 
With  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  whose  melody  flows. 
For  hearts  that  awake  when  the  world  are  at  rest, 
Came  over  your  soul  like  the  airs  of  the  blest: 
When  ye  thought  ye  conldjiear  from  the   height   of 

the  sky 
The  musick  of  peace  going  tenderly  by— 

The  girl  ye  had  loved!— and  the  song  ye  had  taught  her! 

Ye  who  would  love  such  airy  songs, 
As  listening  solitude  prolongs, 

When  from  the  height  of  yon  blue  dome, 
The  moon-light  trembles  to  the  earth! 
And  angel  melodies  find  birth; 

And  musick  sighs  in  her  echoless  home! 

Come  ye  and  listen!  I  will  sing 
What  led  my  senses  wandering. 

Or,  would  ye  hear  the  rending  song 
Bursting  tumultuously  along? 
The  challenge — charge — and  pealing  cry — 
And  shock  of  armies — when  on  high 
Broad  crimson  banners  flaunt  the  sky — 
And  sabres  flash — and  helmets  ring — 
And  war-steeds  neigh— and  bugles  sing 


126  GOLDAtT. 

,     When  comes  the  shout,  they  fly!— they  fly! 
And  echoing  o'er  the  dark  blue  sky 

The  cannon's  thunder  rolls! 
When  all  the  heaven  is  rolling  shade- 
Arid  lightnings  stream  from  every  blade 
Revealing  airy  shapes  arrayed, 
In  strife,  with  warriour-souls! 


Thus — thus  he  woke  his  harp  again; 
A  strange  enthusiastick  strain; 
And  kneeling  on  the  naked  ground, 
Filled  all  the  mountain  echoes  round: 
Then  swept  the  cords,  as  if  to  raise 
The  spirit  of  departed  days! 
That  harper  had  an  audience  there 
in  heaven,  and  earth,  and  in  the  air! 
Then,  bending  o'er  the  cords,  he  smote 
A  thronging— bold — exulting  note-— 
And  stood  erect! — then  flashed  the  wires! 
Then,  came  the  stormy  clash  of  lyres! 
And  had  ye  heard  the  rolling  song, 
So  full — triumphant — and  so  strong — 
Ye  never  had  believed  that  one 
Thro'  such  a  boundless  theme  could  run. 
It  was  the  noise  of  countless  wings! 
Of  countless  harps! — with  countless  strings! 
Of  distant  fifes — and  echoing  drums— 
Of  soldier-hymning  when  it  comes 


GOLDAU.  127 

Upon  the  shifting  breeze  of  night, 

In  farewells  to  the  dying  light, 

When  steeds  are  forth,  and  banners  blaze 

Unfolding  in  the  sun's  last  rays— 

And  squadrons  o'er  the  plain  are  dashing— 
And  martial  helms  are  nodding  free 
In  youth's  bold-hearted  revelry — 
And  woman  goes  before  the  sight 
In  airy  pageantry  and  light 

With  shawl  and  high-plumed  bonnet  flashing! 

And  then  he  filled  the  sunset  sky 
With  lightly  springing  melody, 
Then  shook  the  wires!  and  along 
There  went  the  huntsman's  bugle-song: 
And  lo,  aloft  its  silvery  cry 

Ran  clear  and  far,  and  cheerily! 
And  then  the  pipe!  while  o'er  the  sky — 
Where  laughing  babes  were  heard  to  fly- 
Sweet  bells  ran  gingling  merrily! 
His  song  is  heard— a  full  dark  eye, 
And  cheek  of  health's  own  mountain  dye, 

Are  brightening  to  his  minstrelsy; 
A  heart  is  swelling,  and  the  sigh 
That  lingers  as  it  passes  by, 

Proclaims  entrancing  extacy! 
And  these  are  now  the  words  he  -sings— 
That  leap  so  proudly  from  his  strings: 


128  GOLDAU. 

THE  MINSTREL. 

Oh  wafoen,  my  Harp!  to  the  marching  of  song! 

Oh  scatter  the  clouds  that  are  brooding  around  thee: 
Look  forth  in  thy  might,  while  the  tempest  is  strong, 
Nor  reel  in  thy  strength,  as  thou  movest  along, 
Sublime  on  the  winds,  where  my  young  spirit  found 

thee! 

O,  loosen  thy  numbers  in  pride, 
Let  them  triumph  along  on  the  tide, 
That  bears  the  last  links  of  the  fetters  that  bound 

thee! 

Away  with  the  pall  that  envelops  thy  form! 
Abroad  o'er  the  hills  let  thy  genius  storm: 

0  burst  the  bright  garlands  that  shrine  thee! 
O  scatter  thy  jassamine  blossoms  in  air! 

And  the  Tempest  herself  shall  twine  thee, 
Of  the  long  wild  grass,  and  the  mountain's  rank  hair — 
A  wreath  that  is  worthy  the  brow  of  Despair! 
Such  chaplets  at  night,  in  the  wind,  I  have  seen, 
On  the  rock-rooted  fir,  and  the  blasted  green, 
That  tell  where  the  anger  of  heaven  hath  been: 
When  a  thick  blue  light  on  their  barrenness  hung; 
When  the  thunders  pealed,  and  the  cliff-tops  rung; 
And  the  bending  oak  in  the  cold  rain  swung. 

The  Harper  paused — the  clouds  went  past, 
In  pomp  upon  the  rising  blast: 


GOLDAU.  129 

The  Harper's  eye  to  heaven  is  raised, 
And  all  the  lustres  that  had  blazed, 
In  triumph  o'er  his  pallid  brow, 
Have  with  the  sunset  faded  now: 
And  now  his  eye  returns  to  earth, 
And  solemn  melodies  have  birth; 
And  lo,  a  distant  mournful  sound, 
Goes  wandering  thro*  the  caverns  round: 
Such  symphonies,  are  some  times  heard 
From  some  sweet  melancholy  bird, 
That  sings  her  twilight  song  alone, 
As  if  her  heart  sent  forth  a  tone: — 
In  summer  dreaming,  ye  may  hear 
Such  singing  gently  pass  the  ear, 
And  hold  your  breath  till  it  hath  gone — 
Then  wonder  as  the  song  is  done— 
That  ye  can  be  so  soon  alone:— 
Or  start  to  find  the  glittering  tear 
Upon  the  mossy  turf  appear: — 
Or  in  your  visions  when  ye  see 
Some  angel-harp,  in  extacy, 

Awakened  by  an  angel  wing, 
When  every  plume  of  glittering  light, 
Unfolding  to  the  dazzled  sight, 

Goes  faintly  o'er  some  quiet  string! 

Wild  sounds  but  sweet!  the  silky  tune 
Of  fairies  playing  to  the  moon; 
17 


GOLDAU. 

The  sprightly  flourish  of  the  horn, 
That  underneath  the  blooming  thorn, 
Pipes  sharply  to  the  freshening  morn; 
The  threaded  melodies  that  sing 
From  blossomed  harps  of  cobweb  string: 
The  busy  chirping  minstrelsy 
Of  Evening's  myriads  in  their  glee; 
When  every,  bright  musician  sings 
With  voice,  and  instrument  and  wings: 
When  all  at  once,  the  concert  breaks 
To  multitudes  of  tingling  shakes! 
When  glittering  miniature  guitars, 
And  harps  embossed  with  diamond  stars, 
Equipped  with  fiery  wings,  take  flight 
In  musick  past  the  ear  of  might: 

When  all  around, 

Ye  hear  the  the  sound 
Of  windy  bugles,  plucking  while  blowing, 
Strown  loose  upon  the  stream,  and  going, 

In  sweet  farewells, 

Like  living  shells, 
Or  fountains  singing  while  they're  flowing. 

Of  golden  straws— and  slippery  shells 
Of  sounding  pebbles — choral  bells, — 
And  flow'ret  trumps  with  dewy  rims, 
Where  one  perpetual  inurmur  swims; 
As  if  some  swiftly  passing  sound, 
Were  caught  within  its  airy  round;— 


GOLDAU.  131 

And  droppings  like  the  tinkling  rain, 
Upon  the  crisped  leaf — and  strain 
Of  dainty  wheat-stalks  split,  and  singing; 
And  insect-armour  sharply  ringing; 
And  chirp  of  fairy  birds  in  flight, — 
One  endless  tune,  like  some  young  spright, 
That's  twittering  on  from  morn  till  night. 
With  living  drums,  and  many  a  fife 
Of  tiny  airs,  and  puny  strife: 
And  those  thin  whistling  tunes  from  grass, 
That  turns  its  edge  to  winds  that  pass; 
And  all  the  sweet  fantastic  sounds, 
That  linger  on  enchanted  grounds: 
Of  elfins,  prisoned  in  a  flower, 
That  listen  to  the  tinkling  shower, 
And  mock  its  sounds  and  shout  and  play 
Full  many  a  fairy-minstrel  lay- 
To  pass  their  dreary  time  away. 
Now  heaves  the  lyre  as  if  oppressed— 
And  sobbing  now  subsides  to  rest, 
Like  rapture  on  a  maidens  breast; 
Or  like  the  struggling  sounds  that  rove, 
When  boyhood  tells  its  earlist  love: 
Or  like  those  strange  unearthly  lyres, 
Whose  hearts  are  strung  with  unseen  wires, 
That  wake  but  to  the  winds  of  heaven— 
The  breezes  of  the  morn  and  even; 


132  GOLDAU. 

That  mounting  to  the  rosy  skies, 
Like  sky-larks  on  their  freshest  wing, 
Forever  mount,  forever  sing, 

Louder,  and  louder  as  they  rise. 
Now  loudly  comes  the  song  again, 
A  thronging  and  impatient  strain. 

THE  MINSTREL. 

Heave  darkly  now  my  harp — friend  of  my  lonely  hour! 

Cold  swell  thy  numbers! 

Away  with  the  trumpet  song— the  wintry  requeim  pour 
The  hymning  for  the  dead — the  rush  of  churchyard 
shower — 

For  she  who  loved  thee! 
She  who  moved  thee! 
She  who  proved  thee! 

In  darkness  slumbers! 
O,  who  has  not  felt,  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 

The  breathing  of  some  one  near  to  him? 
The  waving  of  some  fresh  angel  plume— 
A  vision  of  peace  in  an  hour  of  gloom — 
While  a  nameless  wish  on  his  heart  sat  light 
And  the  net-work  over  its  pulse  grew  tight. 
As  he  thought  of  her  who  was  dear  to  him! 

And  who  has  not  wished  that  the  day  might  never 

Intrude  on  such  innocent  sleep? 
And  prayed  that  the  vision  might  stay  forever. 

And  who  has  not  wakened  to  weep! 


GOLDAU.  133 

And  who  has  not  murmured — in  agony  too — 
When  the  tenant  of  heaven  away  from  him  flew— 

And  he  felt  'twas  a  vision  indeed! 
Such — such  are  the  phantoms,  my  days  pursue, 

And  will  till  my  spirit  is  freed. 

I  wake  from  a  trance  on  the  cliff's  stormy  height, 
While  such  visions  are  fading  away  from  my  sight— 
And  feel — while  my  senses  are  going  astray — 
Like  one  that  can  watch  bis  own  heart  in  decay — 
Like  a  dreamer  that's  wandered  uncovered  in  day! 
And  find,  as  I  start  from  the  spell  that  enthralled  me, 
That  the  voices  and  wings  of  the  spirits  that  called  me, 

Are  pageants  that  flit  thro'  the  fire  of  the  brain:— 
Commissioned  to  waken  my  heart  from  its  sleep- 
To  stir  my  young  blood — till  the  maniac  weep— 
But  commissioned— by  Mercy—in  vain—! 
Nay — silence  my  harp! — the  enchantment  is  near— 
Her  pinions  are  waving!— my  Ellen,  appear! 


He  paused— and  then  imploringly, 
There  went  in  lustre  from  his  eye 
A  mute  petition  to  the  sky: 
He  turned  and  saw  the  dark-eyed  maid; 
And  saw  her  drop  a  trembling  tear — 
Then  on  her  breast  his  hand  he  laid, 
As  listening  if  its  pulse  betrayed 
One  added  throb  of  doubt  or  fear. 


134  GOLDAU. 

Then — gazing  on  her  downcast  eye, 
He  shook  his  head  reproachfully — 
Put  back  her  flowing  raven  hair, 
And  wiped  the  tear-drop  glittering  there, 
And  shook  his  own  imperial  brow, 

And  thanked  her  with  his  eye- 
Then  dropt  her  yielding  hand — and  now 

His  harp  is  pealing  high! 

And  now  a  murmuring  comes  again, 
A  mournful — faint — and  languid  strain. 

MINSTREL. 

Nay — nay  sweet  girl — thou  shalt  not  weep! 
1*11  wake  my  Ellen's  summer  sleep: 
This  is  the  strain  she  bid  me  sing, 
When  I  would  hear  her  angel  wing. 
A  low — sweet  symphony  then  fell 
From  each  calm  wire,  as  if  a  spell 

In  musick  might  be  spoke  a! 
'Twas  like  the  breath  of  evening's  shell 
When  faintly  comes  its  faintest  swell, 
Or  fairy  note  from  flow'ret  bell, 
When  some  young  insect's  golden  cell 

By  careless  touch  is  broken! 
And  then  was  heard  like  singing  air 
This  adjuration  trembling  there. 


GOLDAU. 

ADJURATION. 

O  come  on  the  beam  of  the  night,  love! 

0,  come  on  the  beam  of  the  night! 
While  the  stars  are  all  busy  and  bright,  love: 
O,  come  with  thy  tresses  of  light! 

Away  thro*  the  air  we  will  go,  love, 
Where  the  waters  of  melody  flow,  love: 

Where  all  the  fresh  lilies  are  blowing; 

Where  the  turf  is  all  mossy  and  green,  love; 
Where  the  fountains  of  heaven  are  flowing, 

And  the  skies  are  all  blue  and  serene  love. 

0,  come  with  thy  plumage  of  light,  love, 
And  we  will  embrace  in  our  flight,  love, 

O,  come  to  my  desolate  heart,  love, 

And  smile  on  the  clouds  that  are  there, 

And,  let  us  together  depart,  love, 
And  sing  on  our  way  thro'  the  air. 

0,  come,  let  us  hasten  away  love — 
Where  spirits  may  worship  and  pray  love. 

O,  come  on  the  beam  of  the  night,  love! 

O,  come  on  the  beam  of  the  night! 
While  the  stars  are  all  busy  and  bright,  love, 

0,  come  with  thy  tresses  of  light! 


136  GOLDAU. 

Then  with  a  glance  of  fire  he  rose, 
And  this — a  fiercer  hymning  rose: 

This  harp  hath  Iain  long  unforgotten  in  gloom; 

And  the  roses  that  wreathed  it  have  lost  all  their  bloom, 

Since  it  brightened  and  trembled  at  home: 
The  swell  of  whose  heaven,  and  smile  of  whose  day, 
First  tempted  its  song  on  the  breezes  to  stray: 
The  air  of  whose  mountains  first  taught  it  to  play, 
And  the  wind  from  the  surge,  as  it  tumbled  in  foam, 
First  challenged  its  numbers  in  storm  to  roam. 

For  the  night  of  the  heart,  and  of  sorrow  is  o'er  it, 
And  the  passionate  hymn  that  in  other  days  tore  it, 
With  her,  who  so  oft  to  the  green  bower  bore  it: 

Have  gone  like  the  moonlighted  song  of  a  dream! 

Like  the  soul  of  an  eye  that  hath  shed  its  last  beam! 
And  the  tendrils  of  lustre  that  over  it  curled, 
With  the  dark  eye  that  gave  all  its  wanderings  birth, 
All  gone— like  a  cherubim-wing  that  is  furled— 
And  left  me  alone— all  alone  in  the  world— 
With  nothing  to  worship  or  sing  to  on  earth! 

Yet— yet  o*er  the  mountains  my  country  appears: 

And  to  her  I  will  waken  my  lyre: 
Perhaps  it  may  brighten  again,  tho'  in  tears, 
And  the  being  it  sang  to  in  long  vanished  years, 

May  come  in  my  visions  of  fire! 


GOLDAU.  IS? 

Ah,  though  she  has  gone— that  young  hope  of  my  heart! 

Still  she  thinks  of  the  nights  when  I  played  to  her, 
When  my  sighs,  like  the  souls  of  the  blest  would  depart^ 

As  I  knelt  by  my  harp  and  prayed  to  her. 

O,  yes — tho*  thou  art  gone,  my  love, 
Thou'lt  know  the  lay — for  none  could  move 
Thy  pulse  like  him,  who  sings  this  song- 
Its  throbs  delay — subdue — prolong — 
For  they  were  so  obedient  still, 
They  fluttered  faintly  at  his  will, 
Thy  heart  and  soul,  and  thought  kept  time 
Like  angels  to  some  heavenly  chime; 
Now  lightning  darted  from  thine  eye: 
As  bright  as  ever  cleft  the  sky; 
And  now  in  rich  dissolving  dew — 
They  darkly  swam  like  heaven's  own  blue; 
Now  bent  to  earth — now  flashing  bright: — 
Now  fainting— fading  on  the  sight-*- 
Like  cherub  eyes  that  weep  in  light; 
O,  yes  thou'lt  know  the  lay  again, 
And  weep  to  hear  my  harp  complain; 
Spirit!  I  know  thou  wilt,  for  ye 
Can  never  lose  such  memory: — 
It  was  the  nursling  of  thy  heart, 
And  never — never  will  depart; 
And  as  for  mine — it  was  such  pride, 
To  catch  thy  dark-eye's  glorious  tide— 
And  ieel  it  thro*  my  arteries  glide: 
18 


138  GOLBAU. 

Or  fade  like  twilight's  lovely  ray, 
Or  fountains  at  the  dose  of  day, 
That  I  could  sing  my  heart  away, 
To  such  a  spirit  would  it  stay! 


The  Harper  paused:  his  numbers  died:— 
The  mountain-nymph  was  by  his  side: 
Unconscious  that  the  mighty  spell, 
Which  drew  her  to  his  lonely  cell, 
Was  strengthening  as  she  heard  this  song, 
Go  so  complainingly  along, 
For  let  him  sing  of  what  he  might: 
Of  heaven  or  sunshine — storms  or  night— 
The  battle— earthquake —  or  the  bed 
Of  honour — rapture — or  the  dead:— 
Her  swelling  heart — her  glistening  lash— 
The  sudden  breath — the  sudden  flash — 
Proclaimed  how  well  the  charm  was  wrought, 
How  surely  was  her  young  heart  caught. 

Again  he  smote  his  sounding  lyre, 
Again  his  arm  to  heaven  was  raised; 

His  robe  was  forth!  and  prouder — higher 

He  rang  his  trumpet  notes  of  fire; 
Until  his  very  spirit  blazed! 

And  from  his  eye  of  lustrous  night, 

There  went — uninterrupted  light! 

And  thus  he  chained  to  the  rude 

Omnipotence  of  Solitude. 


GOLDAU.  139 

Switzerland  of  Hills!  Thou  muse  of  Storms, 
Where  the  cloud-spirit  reins  the  bursting  forms 
Of  airy  steeds — whose  meteor-manes  float  far 
In  lightning  tresses  o'er  the  midnight  car 
That  bears  thine  angels  to  their  mountain  war! 

Home  of  the  earthquake!  land  where  Tell 
Bared  his  great  bosom  to  his  God,  and  fell, 
Like  his  own  Alpine-torrent,  on  his  country's  foe; 
Land  of  the  unerring  shaft  and  waniour-bow 
The  upward  Eagle — and  the  bounding  Doe: — 
The  shaggy  wolf— and  the  eternal  flow 
Of  cloud-nursed  streams,  and  everlasting  sno  w. 

Switzerland!  my  country!  'tis  to  thee 

I  rock  my  harp  in  agony: — 
My  country!  nurse  of  Liberty, 

Home  of  the  gallant,  great  and  free, 

My  sullen  harp  I  rock  to  thee. 

0, 1  have  lost  ye  all! 

Parents — and  home — and  friends: 
Ye  sleep  beneath  a  mountain-pall: 

A  mountain-plumage  o'er  ye  bends. 
The  cliff-yew  in  funereal  gloom, 
Is  now  the  only  mourning  plume 
That  nods  above  a  peoples'  tomb. 

Of  the  echoes  that  swim  o'er<  thy  bright  blue  lake, 
And  deep  in  its  caverns,  their  merry  bells  shake, 


140  GOLDAU. 

And  repeat  thy  young  huntsman's  cry: 
That  clatter  and  laugh,  when  the  goat-herds  take 
Their  browsing  flocks  at  the  morning's  break 
Far  over  the  hills—not  one  is  awake 

In  the  swell  of  thy  peaceable  sky. 

They  sit  ou  that  wave  with  a  motionless  wing; 
And  their  cymbals  are  mute;  and  the  desart  birds  sing 
Their  unanswered  notes,  to  the  wave  and  the  sky- 
One  startling,  and  sudden — unchangeable  cry, 
As  they  stoop  their  broad  wing  and  go  sluggishly  by: 
For  deep  in  that  blue-bosomed  water  is  laid, 
As  innocent,  true,  and  as  lovely  a  maid 
As  ever  in  cheerfulness  carolled  her  song, 
In  the  blythe  mountain  air,  as  she  bounded  along. 
The  heavens  are  all  blue,  and  the  billows  bright  verge 
Is  frothily  laved  by  a  whispering  surge, 
That  heaves  incessant,  a  tranquil  dirge 

To  lull  the  pale  forms  that  sleep  below, 
Forms — that  rock  as  the  waters  flow. 

That  bright  lake  is  still  as  a  liquid  sky, 
And  when  o'er  its  bosom  the  swift  clouds  fly, 
They  pass  like  thoughts  o'er  a  clear  blue  eye! 

The  fringe  of  thin  foam  that  their  sepulchre  binds* 
Is  as  light  as  the  cloud  that  is  borne  by  the  winds; 
While  over  its  bosom  the  dim  vapours  hover, 
And  flutterless  skims  the  snowy-winged  plover: 
Swiftly  passing  away — like  a  hunted  wing,         . 
"With  a  drooping  plume—that  may  not  fling 


GOLDAU.  14t 

One  sound  of  life—or  a  rustling  note— 

O'er  that  sleepless  tomb — where  my  loved  ones  float. 

Oh  cool  and  fresh  is  that  bright  blue  lake, 
While  over  its  stillness  no  sounds  awake: 
No  sights— but  those  of  the  hill-top  fountain 
That  swims  on  the  height  of  a  cloud-wrapped  moun 
tain— 

The  basin  of  the  rainbow-stream, 
The  sunset  gush — the  morning-gleam — 
The  picture  of  the  poet's  dream. 
Land  of  proud  hearts!  where  Freedom  broods 
Amid  her  home  of  echoing  woods 
The  mother  of  the  mountain  floods — 
Dark,  Goldau  is  thy  vale; 
The  spirits  of  Rigi  shall  wail 
On  their  cloud-bosomed  deep  as  they  sail 
In  mist  where  thy  children  are  lying — 
As  their  thunders  once  paused  in  their  headlong  descent, 
And  delayed  their  discharge— while  thy  desert  was  rent 

With  the  cries  of  thy  sons  who  were  dying. 
No  chariots  of  fire  on  the  clouds  careered: 
No  warriour-arm,  with  its  falchion  reared:— 
No  death  angel's  trump  o'er  the  ocean  was  blown: 
No  mantle  of  wrath  o'er  the  heaven  was  thrown; 
No  armies  of  light — with  their  banners  of  flame — 
On  neighing  steeds — thro'  the  sunset  came, 

Or  leaping  from  space  appeared! 
No  earthquakes  reeled — no  Thunderer  stormed: 
No  fetterless  dead  o'er  the  bright  sky  swarmed: 
Nd  voices  in  heaven  were  heard! 


142  GOLDAU. 

But  the  hour  when  the  sun  in  his  pride  went  down   * 
While  his  parting  hung  rich  o'er  the  world: 

While  abroad  o'er  the  sky  his  flush  mantle  was  blown, 
And  his  red-rushing  streamers  unfurled;-- 

An  everlasting  hill  was  torn 
From  its  eternal  base — and  borne— 
In  gold  and  crimson  vapours  drest 
To  where a  people  are  at  rest! 

Slowly  it  came  in  its  mountain  wrath, 

And  the  forests  vanished  before  its  path: 

And  the  rude  cliffs  bowed — and  the  waters  fled — 

And  the  living  were  buried,  while  over  their  head 

They  heard  the  full  march  of  their  foe  as  he  sped 

And  the  valley  of  life — was  the  tomb  of  the  dead! 

The  clouds  were  all  bright:  no  lightnings  flew: 
And  over  that  valley  no  death-blast  blew: 
No  storm  passed  by  on  his  cloudy  wing: 
No  twang  was  heard  from  the  sky-archer's  string- 
But  the  dark,  dim  hill  in  its  strength  came  down, 
While  the  shedding  of  day  on  its  summit  was  thrown, 
A  glory  all  light,  like  a  wind- wreathed  crown- 
While  the  tame  bird  flew  to  the  vulture's  nest, 
And  the  vulture  forbore  in  that  hour  to  molest— 

The  mountain  sepulchre  of  all  I  loved! 
The  villages  sank — and  the  monarch  trees 
Leaned  back  from  the  encountering  breeze — 

While  this  tremendous  pageant  moved! 


GOLDAIT.  143 

The  mountain  forsook  his  perpetual  throne- 
Came  down  from  his  rock — and  his  path  is  shown— 
In  barrenness  and  ruin — where 
The  secret  of  his  power  lies  bare— 
His  rocks  in  nakedness  arise: 
His  desolation  mock  the  skies. 

Sweet  vale— Goldau!  farewell — 
An  Alpine  monument  may  dwell 
Upon  thy  bosom,  O,  my  home! 

But  when  the  last  dread  trump  shall  sound 
I'll  tread  again  thy  hallowed  ground — 
Sleep  thee,  my  loved  one,  sleep  thee! 
While  yet  I  live,  I'll  weep  thee — 
Of  thy  blue  dwelling  I'll  dream  wherever  I  roam, 
And  wish  myself  wrapped  in  its  peaceful  foam. 

Sweet  vale — Goldau— farewell! 
My  cold  harp,  cease  thy  swell- 
Till  tuned  where  my  loved  ones  dwell, 
My  home!— Goldau!  farewell! 


THE   END, 


M142391 


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